


Black Mamba, dendroaspis polylepis

by grizzly_bear_bane



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Detective!Eames, M/M, serial killer!Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 09:52:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 103,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2727938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grizzly_bear_bane/pseuds/grizzly_bear_bane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eames is a solitary former detective and the FBI’s most successful unit chief on serial killers and assassins. </p>
<p>Unkempt in his personal life and disillusioned with his profession, this is his last case before he retires to his book royalties and criminology students.</p>
<p>It’s up to Eames to take a leap of faith in order to solve a case even more sinister than he could have ever imagined.</p>
<p>But can he trust the unhinged, hunter of men sitting across from him in the interrogation room or has Eames bitten off more than he can chew with this one?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to tamat9 and velificantes for the unending support and beta work! And to all the folks who've waited forever for this to finally come out. <3
> 
> Comments, critiques, and kudos are always welcomed and appreciated.
> 
> Enjoy!

**Part One**

*****

 

 

The Devil is real.  
And he's not a little red man with horns and a tail.  
He can be beautiful.  
Because he's a fallen angel,  
and he used to be God's favorite.

_― Leah, American Horror Story: Murder House_

++

+

 

Just for today, Eames was going to pass on his normal bowl of plain oatmeal and cup of orange juice for breakfast.

He was going to splurge. Three pancakes with a bit of syrup and butter on top and apple juice instead.

Eames deserved it. As an investigator for the FBI’s violent crimes divisions, the former detective had worked hard his entire twenty-year career of catching monsters, but never so much as he had these last five.

The menace known as the Black Mamba had proved to be no average killer. His attacks were random, from politicians to repairmen and wealthy couples, to university professors, doctors, and even over twenty police officers and agents in the span of twelve states. Some victims were bludgeoned before being shot, others dismembered first... Then there were those lucky ones who were only just killed by two parallel bullets shot in the chest, like a snake bite over the heart. His signature. 

There was no foreseeable motive, no pinpointing where the Black Mamba would strike next. And all the evidence Eames' team had were just a shadowy, grainy photo from a surveillance camera of a young man leaving a hotel the night a senator's head of staff in Oregon was murdered, and bullets purchased in two of the neighboring cities.

It was impossible to make a definitive case for any man’s arrest on a gun store visit and a photo, especially given that on that same night, another politician was shot in the same manner in the next state. 

Everyone had called the photo a coincidence, in an uproar over chasing and losing the wrong man. Eames, however, had a hunch and ran with it.

His intuition was infallible. The following month, they’d had an informant, the next, the same suspect. Arthur Harris  _had_  to be the Black Mamba.

Only, getting him to sit for an interrogation was another issue entirely. Five years of searching, researching, finding the man’s trail and then losing him again had only led to five years of watching Harris' body count rise, starting from the west coast moving eastward. For a few years, Eames had feared that the man was simply impossible to catch.

No state could keep their hands on him for more than an hour, it seemed, before the Black Mamba disappeared again, leaving even more bodies in his wake. Harris was first picked up by police in Los Angeles for possessing weapons he wasn't registered for. He escaped, and was then captured in Los Vegas for stabbing two police officers when they tried to arrest him for the warrant, then he was picked up in Houston, then Miami, and had made a mess of a jail in Atlanta. 

But after a successful stake out at Reagan International Airport in Washington, D.C., the deadliest, most evasive killer of Eames’ career was now handcuffed and waiting for him in the interrogation room of the nearest police station they'd seized. The FBI had already broken the record for the longest time Harris was kept in one spot and it had only been a handful of hours. But Eames and his team were just getting started. Give the Black Mamba a few days in custody and Eames would have all he needed to fully understand this killer and why this man did what he did. 

Only, it happened again. As soon as they'd placed Harris under arrest, another victim was claimed in Capital Hill. 

Eames' work wasn't done just yet.

He scratched his chin through his scruffy, thick beard, standing in the archway of his kitchen. He grunted at the worst of the riverside cottage’s clutter and at the fact that he hadn’t really had an occasion to celebrate in so long that he almost forgot how to make those pancakes.

Even as they were, plain, save for the butter and maple, and slightly a little too brown on the bottoms, his breakfast was lovely. He almost smiled as he finished his apple juice and took a moment to enjoy the dark clouds and the early morning fog rolling in from the Patuxent River into the Chesapeake Bay beyond the windows.

The team had only caught a few hours sleep after getting Harris into the holding cell. Eames even less as he lived so far across the rivers in Maryland. He wasn’t looking forward to dealing with any of his colleagues, but it wouldn’t be too long before he’d never have to see them again, when he could retire the second Harris' accomplice was behind bars too.

On  _that_  day, Eames knew already, he’d make pancakes as well as a side of bacon. He could hardly wait.

Stepping out into the cold drizzle of November, Eames was stopped on his front porch by a dead bird.

He picked it up with a tissue from his coat pocket and wondered, as he did nearly every morning he had to remove a dead bird from his porch, how they could feel so weightless in his hand and yet still be capable of crashing into his bay window with enough force to startle him on the other end of the house.

Eames wouldn’t let it dampen his day, however. Just shuffling out of his coat in his small, blue Tucson, his beard and face wet from the thick drizzle, he could come up with a dozen things he’d do once he’d be free to turn in his badge and gun. Reading, sleeping, perhaps trying new foods, visiting his mother… Today was going to be a fantastic day.

He called his mother on the drive as he did every morning, filling the miles with her conversation. Eames prided himself on never missing a call.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” his mother’s rich voice seemed to smile through the phone. “Happy Birthday, my dear.” She chuckled hearing Eames grumble a response. “Oh, darling, don’t be so grouchy. Turning forty-one isn’t that bad. Imagine how I feel.  _I_  have a forty-one-year-old son. Thank goodness I still have all my teeth. And my hair hasn’t fully grayed yet either, although, forty-one still sounds like a dream to Harold and I.”

Eames let the sound of the windshield wipers fill the silence that followed as he drove over the rainy, foggy bridge, never sparing a glance at the sun rising, glowing through the clouds over the river to his left.

After a while, she asked, “Have any plans for celebrating this year? Maybe dinner with a few friends? Maybe that attractive coworker you’re always complaining about? Oh, what’s his name? Something Sub-Saharan sounding?”

He huffed. “I’m working late tonight,” he answered, even though it was clear to them both that, work or not, there were no friends, and he hated most of his coworkers.

“Sweetheart, you have got to start making time for these things.”

“Hm.”

“William, sweetheart,” she said, carefully, after another pause, “shouldn’t we try something new this year?"

"Such as?"

"You’re forty-one today. You’ve had more than enough time for solitude, my dove.” She sighed. “Emily and Marge would have never wanted you to give up your life just becau—”

“How’s that husband of yours?”

“William. It’s been nearly thirty years since your father…did what he did.”

“Mum, please.” His voice was flat. “I’m sure you’ve seen the news already about the killer—”

“For which I am very proud, of course, but—”

“So I’ve had little sleep and even less time to prepare for the press conference, so…I’m exhausted. How is your husband?”

Her defeated sigh hissed loudly from the dashboard. “Harold's responding well to the chemotherapy. For now.”

Eames nodded, looking out at the early morning drivers around him. “Good. That’s good.”

“That’s it?” she teased. “No stealthy interrogation or list of questions about Harold possibly being a secret criminal? Wow. You must really be tired, pumpkin.”

The corner of his lips quirk up a bit. “Funny, mum,” he muttered. “Very funny.”

Her quiet chuckle was triumphant. Even across an ocean, she could always tell when she’d managed to get a smile, however small it was, from her grumpy boy.

+

 

The police station was in a buzz when Eames arrived. The cops and agents all watched him with something akin to awe but respectfully kept their distance, knowing that even a momentous day like this one wouldn’t make Eames more amicable than normal.

“And so,” one of his younger agents had been saying as Eames neared the Bureau's claimed corner of the station, "we’re edging up, right? Closer and closer to Harris near the terminals." The man was surrounded by fawning interns and agents alike as he retold the story. “But I was just so tired of waiting!”

Their PR representative laughed. “Oh Robbie, you didn’t, did you?”

“I totally did. I rush out, taking him by surprise, and wrestled him to the ground. I got cut here,” he showed them a wound on his hand, “but it was totally worth it.”

All lies. Robert Fischer was only in Eames’ team because of his father's impeccable reputation with the FBI and the mental health hospital he'd created. When the Black Mamba had been subdued, Robert Fischer had been hiding behind two policemen. “Fischer?”

Robert’s charming smile turned into a frown, seeing his supervisor. "Coming, sir." He gathered his folders and research as his audience cleared out. 

Eames headed for the director's borrowed office. “Where are the others?”

“Saito and the other LA profilers are with Adeyemi," Robert answered in a bored tone. "A lady from the New Orleans office is here as well now.”

“Nash and Ariadne?”

“Babysitting.”

Eames paused, glancing at Robert. “Are they in the room with him?”

“No, sir. Adeyemi already told us all to stay out until you gave us instructions, so they're just watching Harris behind the glass—Or they're probably screwing in a broom closet, considering Ariadne's low standards," Robert muttered with haughty disdain, clearly still feeling the sting of her rejection. "Her boyfriend got transferred to DC and according to him, she hasn't exactly been returning his calls or paying him any visits. You know she's still upset he got promoted over her as if—Whatever.” He looked away as Eames glared at him.

Eames suppressed his sigh, wishing that Saito were with Nash instead of Ariadne. This meeting would go nowhere fast, otherwise.

Out of all of the team, she had the best head on her shoulders. She knew how to listen, unlike the others, who chose posturing and arrogance over rational thought and logic every time. When Ariadne looked at the evidence, she knew that it couldn’t be mere coincidence that only certain victims, certain  _very high profile and political victims,_  were killed in public, at a distance, assassination-style, as if a  _hitman_  had picked them off, rather than the madman Harris was painted as by Saito. Ariadne was a smart woman. Getting involved with Nash would mean losing the last person Eames had on his side.

His fear was confirmed once the meeting was over. Ariadne returned with Nash, awkward around Eames as she stood beside Tadashi outside of their director’s office.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Eames,” Nash complained, the second he saw the man, “aren’t you’re supposed to give a press conference this morning? You look like a fucking bum—”

“Hey,” the teams' director interrupted, standing tall beside Eames. “That’s more than enough, coming from you,” he said, his deep voice stern and commanding, wiping the smug grin right off Nash’s face. “The last time I checked, Eames was your superior. Maybe once you’ve caught as many killers as Eames has, Mr. Nash, your opinions might be worth listening to.” He didn’t bother waiting for a response, knowing the rookie wouldn’t dare to say more after being embarrassed in front so many people.

The taller man turned to follow Eames into the coffee room. “He’s right, you know,” he teased. “You could have ironed that shirt, Eamesie. Maybe trimmed that jungle you’ve got growing out of your face.”

“Piss off, Adeyemi,” he grumbled, heading for the coffee machine.

Adeyemi chuckled, spotting the minuscule grin under Eames’ beard. “Did you sleep?”

“Did  _you_?”

“’Course not,” he grinned. “I was too busy having a celebratory fuck with my wife. You should try it some time.”

“Not sure your wife would appreciate that, Adeyemi.”

“No, you  _puff_ , I meant winding down with a good shag after a long, grueling mission. You and one of your…boys, or…whatever.” He waved his hand flippantly in Eames’ direction. “No?  _Never_?" He whistled, shaking his head. _"_ Alright, I give up. You know I pity you, Eamesie. I really do.”

“Hm.” He grunted, intending to laugh politely as he poured himself a cup of coffee. “Not sure what I’d do without your sympathy.”

“I know exactly what you’d do. You’d love it if no one here gave two shits about you and your sour attitude.”

“Eames,” the PR rep interrupted, peeking her head into the coffee room, “you’re on in ten. Might want to start preparing for it if I were you. Every newspaper and channel correspondent from here to Seattle's gathering in the conference room.”

“Sounds fun,” Adeyemi griped, stealing Eames’ cup before he could drink it. He held it up to Eames in mock toast. “Good luck, mate.”

+

 

Eames didn’t particularly like people.

This was a thought that crossed his mind every time he stepped in front of the camera flashes and the horde of recording devices and microphones in his face.

“Last night around 2:45am, with the help of local law enforcement, the serial murderer, informally known as the Black Mamba, was apprehended in Ronald Reagan National Airport. In his possession was a small collection of firearms identical to those used in previous attacks. Based on information we had gathered from an anonymous tip who notified the BAU about the Black Mamba's whereabouts last week, we believe this man was in the District, prepared to kill again…”

A tall blonde woman upfront was the first reporter to jump in for questions. “How certain are you that this suspect really is the infamous Black Mamba and not some copycat looking for attention?”

“Very certain.”

A rush of reporters raced to ask, "But what about the murder that took place soon after he was in custody?"

"We will lend our hand to the police on that case if requested."

As the morning dragged on into the late afternoon, more groups of reporters filtered into the press room, asking over and over about the investigation and what would happen next, until a reporter stood with his own hand-held camera. Eames and everyone else in the room, he was sure, groaned in annoyance when they recognized the man. “As often as the Black Mamba has,” he searched the word, “ _miraculously_  escaped custody in other states several times, how certain can you be that your hold on him won't be temporary as well?”

Eames' brow rose, surprised that the question hadn't been one hinting at a government conspiracy. “We're quite aware of this and have taken proper precautions to ensure that he stays put this time.”

“And why aren’t you releasing the Black Mamba's name? Is he a minor? Is that even possible, given the timespan and number of victims?”

Eames glanced at the director who shook his head. “At this time, we will  _not_  be releasing the suspect's name, only because we are still in the very early stages of obtaining his real identity," he lied. "The Black Mamba has several dozen aliases. We want to be absolutely sure our information is accurate before releasing that information to the public.”

“Any word yet on the motive behind these killings? It's been speculated by mainstream sources that the Black Mamba's behavior is impulsive, like,” the man shrugged, "like he's more a  _sociopathic_  killer than a psychopath. However, out of the eighty-plus murders that were committed, the twenty-four high profile victims were clearly  _assassinated_  in ways impossible for just... some crazed killer to carry out. Can you confirm or deny this?"

“Settle down, kid,” the reporter next to him teased, full of condescension. “They just caught the monster this morning.”

“I’ll take that question.” Eames rubbed his beard, hearing Adeyemi clear his throat in a warning Eames ignored as a new hypothesis formed in his head. “It’s only a theory, but a theory that may prove true or false soon enough. I believe that the randomness of these killings was simply a ploy, a distraction, to hide the real targets and thus restrict us from taking more routine preventive measures.”

+

 

Adeyemi stomped out of the room. “I swear, mate,” he muttered, leading Eames to the interrogation rooms once the conferences had ended, “the sooner you retire the better. Did you really have to say the word  _distraction_? Eames, those ‘distractions’ were people’s sons, parents, teachers,  _fellow policemen_ —”

Eames paused, glancing at him with a frown. “What makes you think I was talking about them and not the others?"

He waited for the glaring director to come up with an answer.

Adeyemi sighed, shaking his head. He changed the subject with a nod towards the door where Harris sat cuffed and waiting. “Listen, I don’t need to coach you like the rest of the bunch, but still remember who you’re dealing with in there. He’s been subdued and roughed up, yeah, and he’s quiet for now, but we both know that boy’s a monster. A  _bomb_  waiting to explode with the right trigger, Eames.”

Eames took a step back. “Are you asking me to dinner, Adeyemi?”

The man snorted. “What?”

“Then you don’t need to flatter me, thanks.”

“I hope he rips your head off in there.”

“Cheers.”

 

Eames wasn’t quite sure what he’d been expecting once the door was opened and shut behind him.

He could remember only scarcely a time, when he was a little boy, in which his father was a quiet, gentle man, known for loving his wife, his kids, his community. There was a distinct difference between who that man was and the monster he’d transformed into by the time the police took him into custody. His eyes had been dark, baggy, his hair a mess, his clothes wrinkled and worn. His father had thrown obscenities as the press  _and_  the judge, even Eames’ mother. In Eames’ mind, as he thought back to that time, the blood of his sisters and the neighborhood girls stained his father even now, so long after the man's death.

Arthur Harris was no less a monster, but if any of his inner demons wrecked havoc in his mind, it didn’t show at all on the surface.

Adeyemi was correct to call him a boy. He couldn’t be older than twenty perhaps, with that baby face. All these years and all that bloodshed, thanks to a boy who ought to have been in high school when the crimes had begun and who should have been in college now.

Harris was handcuffed to a lock on the table, tracking Eames with his eyes as Eames spread the stack of files between them. He had a busted lip and various small bruises on his cheekbones and jaw, souvenirs from being transported in a police van filled with angry cops  _against_  Eames' instructions. 

When Eames glanced at him, Harris licked his lips slowly, suggestively. Eames quickly looked away.

As the clock ticked loudly on the far wall, they sat in silence while Eames gathered his thoughts. Harris tilted his head to the left and raised his left shoulder, the metal clinking on the table. He did it again, the curling lock of dark brown hair dangling in his face unmoved by his efforts.

Eames watched him for a moment. He sighed, standing again.

He peeked out of the door to summon one of the policemen in the hallway. “Could you release his cuffs?”

“Sir?”

“His cuffs. Don’t uncuff him, just… release him from the lock, that’s all.”

The policemen stared at him, then to each other, before one followed Eames back into the room.

The officer hesitated for only a second. His hands shook as he reached between Harris' hands, fumbling with his key.

Eames could feel it, the man’s fear. He was certain Harris felt it as well, but the boy's eyes stayed on Eames, his brow arching just a little as he studied Eames.

The chain was freed from the table. For some reason, Eames almost expected the boy to say thank you, but Harris remained silent, tucking the lock of hair behind his ear with his bound hands.

It wasn’t until the officer left, the door clicking shut, that something about Harris finally changed. The boy's shoulders lowered. He sat back, relaxing. His hands disappeared under the table to rest in his lap.

His eyes were sharp as ever, still trying to read Eames, Eames was sure.

Didn’t matter. Nobody was born for this job, but Eames at least had been sculpted by time and experience. He’d stared down enough killers in his detective career alone. None of them had ever scared him, what could a kid in handcuffs do?

“Well, well, Mr. Harris,” Eames said, rubbing his beard again, “pleasure meeting you at last.”

When Harris only smiled, showing dimples, Eames hesitated, but again, he caught himself.

“You’re awfully young to have the reputation that you do.” Eames glanced through the many files. “Your body count’s reached a staggering eighty-four victims.”

"If that's true," Harris said, his voice soft, but strong, confident, “then that number will be eighty-five by the end of today.” 

Eames frowned at that revelation. He opened his mouth to ask, but was stopped by the prickly feeling rising up his arms. Harris was pointedly staring at the large two-way mirror, at the point where Nash was standing just on the other side of the glass, almost as if he could see Nash through it.

“I’m happy you’ve decided to speak, Mr. Harris," Eames said. "I was beginning to wonder if you could.”

Harris blinked at the glass, clenching his jaw through his simmering anger. “One of your agents has my medication. I need it back.”

“Medication?” Well that was one theory confirmed, perhaps. "For?"

"My temper. It keeps me calm. I've already missed two doses.”

Eames cut his eye at the glass, his frown deep set. Of course Nash would do something completely idiotic like that. He probably thought he was punishing Harris, but really all it would do was make their job ten times more difficult the faster Harris burned through his last dose.

Eames sat back in his chair, his hands clasped in his lap. "Well, Arthur, the quicker we get this chat over with—"

“Do you enjoy working with him?” Harris asked, as if he hadn’t heard Eames. He turned his narrow stare to Eames. 

Eames frowned. “He’s good at what he does.”

“That’s a shame,” Harris told him, his expression suddenly, eerily, benign. “I’m sure he’ll be missed, once he’s gone.” 

“You sound awfully sure of yourself.”

“I am.” Harris tilted his head. “You too, but…you’re still talking to me, as if you're still trying to figure out who I am. Why? You already have what you want."

"So you're ready to make a confession? A written statement?" 

Harris chuckled at the table, playing with his cuffs. "Sure. You're cute, so I'll humor you."

Eames stared. "It must be lonely, and  _exhausting_." 

"What is?"

Eames shrugged. "You spend so much time killing, shed  _so much_  blood... How on earth did you commit all eighty-four murders, Arthur?"

Harris' eyes snapped up from the table, losing his cool for just a blip of a second. He didn't speak.

"They were all yours, correct?"

Harris seemed angry for a completely different reason now when he answered flatly. "Sure."

Eames huffed at his piss poor attempt to lie. "Well, except for the ones that happened without you at the crime scene, right? Like this one." He turned two large photographs around for Arthur to see. Two autopsy images, both with the Black Mamba's signature two parallel bullets in a senator's chest and then in a doctor's. "This photo on the left, the bullets are so close, so precise, yet on this picture here, the entry wounds are—"

"Very sloppy," Harris muttered. 

"Indeed. Far spaced, uneven...  _Not_  your work, Arthur."

Harris' attractive face was a little scary in his irritation. He smirked. "What can I say? I must have a fan."

"You have an  _accomplice_ , you mean."

Harris sat forward and snapped, "Would I really let someone get away with work like this?"

“You murdered forty children in Arizona and buried them somewhere. I need a location.”

Harris' brow furrowed as he paused, confused. “Forty children?”

“Mhm.”

The boy sat back. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No.”

Eames sighed. He rested his folded arms on the table. He knew Arthur Harris wasn't a lone wolf, and getting the boy to admit it who the other killer was would be a headache, but what was more so would be having the less terrible killer here and the other still out on the streets. If Arthur Harris had not been the one to kill these children... then where was the man who had?

Eames opened the folders for this specific case, placing each photo of a missing child on the table for Harris to see. “Listen, Arthur. There’s no question of your guilt. We know you’re responsible.  _You_  are the marksman,  _you_  are  _the_  Black Mamba. Now you’re in custody, the evidence is boundless, and once you’ve stood in front of a judge, you’ll be sentenced to death. However, you’re young, and if you cooperate, if you tell me where these children are and where your partner is, well...that certainly couldn't hurt your case, now can it?”

Harris still shook his head, his eyes downcast, making him look…frightfully young, frightfully innocent. “I make bodies, but I don’t bury them. And I absolutely never," he clinched his fist, "kill children.”

Eames’ brow arched. Harris' face revealed too much after being so guarded before. The boy was lost, staring at each photo, trying to make sense of what he was seeing, but he was failing. And yet, when he'd been shown photos from the other cases, photos of cops he'd slaughtered, politicians and the like, all with bullets in their chest and others with nearly severed body parts as well, Eames might as well have been showing Arthur photos of cigarette butts and old grocery lists. 

Harris shook his head slowly. He leaned forward over the table, getting close to Eames, his hands sliding over the photos towards Eames' hand, nearly touching them. He took a moment to carefully formulate his words, his eyes searching Eames' as he whispered slowly, “You’ve got the right idea about me. You know this, but you’re resisting anyways. Why?”

Eames felt suddenly…unbalanced as Harris' eyes shifted to look at the children's faces again. 

A seed of doubt planted itself in Eames' gut. “You’re telling the truth.” The statement tumbled from his lips in a whisper that seemed to startle Harris out of his thoughts.

So there really was a worst man still out there, still hungry for more blood. Damn.

Harris studied Eames’ again, teasingly intrigued. "You aren't afraid of me. Most people have to pretend that they aren't, but not you. How is that?”

"Well," Eames sat back, putting space between them as he spoke, “answer my questions and maybe you'll find out." He crossed his arms. "You're working with someone else, or  _for_  someone else. Who is it? What do you, and they, want?”

Harris' eyes narrowed. “How did you find me?”

“I had a helping hand." Eames paused, his brain catching up to Arthur's. He smirked at the boy. "It’s odd, isn't it? That in the span of the five years I’ve been chasing you, someone suddenly knew where you’d be, and they were right, too. Completely spot-on. Can you imagine that?”

“I can.” Harris nodded. He sat back. His fingers tapped on the table as he sighed. “Makes sense.”

“Looks like you've sat in this room, defending a man who had no problem ratting you out.”

“Looks like.” Harris glanced at the missing children’s faces again. “It’s all pretty sloppy, honestly," he muttered. " _All_  of this.”

“All of what, Arthur?”

Harris smiled again. He pointed his chin. “The buttons on your shirt aren't all in the right holes." He watched Eames, perhaps surprised that Eames didn't glance down at himself. "Based on your appearance, which is surprisingly worse than mine, given my current situation, and the stark absence of crow's feet when you smile," Arthur said, raising his cuffed hands to tap the corners of his own eyes, "I bet you scowl at people all the time, much, much more than you smile— _if_  you ever do actually smile. I bet most people consider you to be unnecessarily unpleasant," he mused, "even though you really are attractive under that beard."

“Hm.” Eames snorted, fighting the urge to drink his water. “Nice try, but that won’t work on me.”

“Oh, I know. After all, you’re William Eames, son of John Eames, the Bradford-Yorkshire Killer. Nothing rattles your cage, right?”

Eames stared at Harris for a moment. It was a kick in the gut, but still, it wasn’t a secret. And though the subject of his father was one best not spoken of, he’d been in this situation plenty of times before.

Only, when Eames opened his mouth to dismiss him, Harris wasn’t finished.

“I feel terrible for you and your sisters.”

Eames clenched and relaxed his hands. “No, you don’t.”

“But  _you_  do. Even after all this time, you're still a wreck over it."

"Arthur—"

"I’ve read about what he did to them.” Harris shook his head, his brow furrowed, as if in real pain. “All those other girls he killed were just…practice, I think. I think he would have killed your mom too, eventually.”

Eames could feel himself stand up, but he couldn’t stop himself. “That’s enough,” he rumbled low, warning.

“You know he was planning on training you to follow in his footsteps. Isn't that what all fathers want for their sons?” Harris looked up at Eames with open wonder, even as his eyes took on a progressively wild look. “I know how that feels, personally. I know what it's like to be in your shoes. You could have ended up right where I am now—”

“I said that’s enough!” Eames shouted, jabbing his finger at Harris. “You know nothing!” 

In a blur, Adeyemi was there, escorting Eames out of the room, past their team and the onlookers of agents and policemen. 

“No one goes in that room," Adeyemi ordered the team, "understood?"

They didn’t stop moving until they’d reached a cluster of cubicles near the break room.

"Come on, Eamesie," Adeyemi said, "get some water and take a breather, mate.”

Eames paced, downing his cup. He rubbed his face. “That’s never happened before.”

“First time for everything." Adeyemi sat on the corner of a cop's empty desk, studying his senior agent. "We can’t all be perfect, Eames.”

“That wasn’t supposed to happen. I—”

Adeyemi held up his hand. “Don’t need to defend yourself to me, Eames. Just relax, regroup for a bit."

“He won’t get the best of me again. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Well, alright then. You go home, get some rest. We’ll keep him on ice, either in a holding cell or in that room, as is, until you're ready. Go crash in your car for a bit if you'd like.”

“No, no, no. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit, Eames. He found your soft spot and stomped on it in less than an hour.”

Eames crushed the plastic cup and dropped it in the trash bin. He tapped his fingers against his thumb, wishing he'd never quit smoking. “It won’t happen again. You can trust that, Idris.”

Adeyemi stopped him with an arm out, blocking his retreat. “You know why he’s got his nickname, but you know anything about real Black Mambas, Eamesie?” he asked.

Eames grunted, shaking his head, his eyes still on the interrogation room door on the opposite end of the office. He was itching to get inside and reclaim the upper hand.

Adeyemi waited until Eames’s attention was back on him. “They’re incredibly dangerous, from Africa.”

“Like you?”

“Funny,” he bit out. “They’re long, awkward-looking little shits. Very shy, very much in the shadows, but if you ever manage to corner a Black Mamba, their defense is to strike, and strike hard, quick, in repetitive bites that leave more people dead than alive. Their venom is known to  _kill lions_ , Eames.”

Eames grunted again, eyeing his colleague with the faintest hint of amusement. “How many men can one take down?”

“On a good day? A household. Bad day?” He winced. “A whole village, probably. You ever stand up to one alone, you’ll be carried out in a body bag. It’s obvious that you’re up against a whole new brand of killer, Eames. You need help in that room.”

“Well,” Eames muttered, “good thing Arthur Harris isn't a real snake, then. Hm?”

“No,” Adeyemi muttered, dropping his hand. “He’s worse.”

The words were barely in the air when chaos erupted from the other side of the station. Shots rang out as people shouted. A fire alarm was pulled.

“Catch him! Don't let him leave the building!”

The station was at once in uproar, lights in the ceiling shattering, agents hitting the floor as the police gun battle moved swiftly.

Adeyemi and Eames took cover behind the desk’s cubicle divider, their guns drawn, but the shots were in the stairwell, then gone.

Eames was on his feet fast as the dust cleared.

The door to the interrogation room was open and inside, Nash lay on his back, his neck broken. Ariadne and Robert sat on the floor nearby, white as ghosts and speechless in their shock. 

+

 


	2. Chapter 2

+

 

Officers with dogs and heavy rifles searched everywhere from the parking lot and every nearby building to no avail.

Soaking wet from the downpour outside, Adeyemi raced with Eames through the clusters of police still struggling to regain control.

“How the hell is this possible?” Adeyemi fumed. “Get me the video from the camera!  _Now!_ "

The collection of photos Eames had spread out on the table was gone, along with their folders and Nash’s badge and keys.

Eames walked around the table. His fingers grazed the opened hook where the cuffs' chain had been locked down.

He knew what had happened. He didn’t need to review any footage to know that he’d caused this terrible, terrible blunder.

Unbalanced. Harris had made him so totally unbalanced, before Eames had even said one word to him. “Is Nash’s car still in the parking lot?” He was surprised when the answer came back as a yes.

Adeyemi cursed under his breath. “Tell the state police to expand their checkpoints beyond the city limits and off the roads as well. That is critical!”

The team moved to his office.

Eames hovered behind Adeyemi's chair once they were given the film. The footage was crystal clear. Nash had barged into the interrogation room only seconds after Eames had left, tossing the evidence bag with Harris' medication onto the table.

He’d paced, the table a convenient barrier between him and Harris. Nash huffed out an angry laugh. “You got a lot of nerve, threatening me like that.”

“Speak for yourself.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” Harris repeated quietly. He’d followed Nash with cat-like eyes, sharp, unwavering, but his entire demeanor was night and day to how he'd been with Eames. The subtle air of respect, of even... something far less professional that Eames wouldn't dare himself to name, was gone from Arthur. Where an attractive boy had sat, a poisonous animal of a young man now took his place, his rage clear on his face. “You took my medication. I need it back.”

Nash had continued to pace on the other side of the table, angry himself. “You know, a lot of people here are fucking terrified of you, but I’m not. No fucking way.”

“Good for you.” Harris nodded, his cuffed hands clasped over his crossed legs. “You must think you're pretty powerful.”

Nash snorted, crossing his arms. “I’m not?”

“Not at all. You ball your hands into fists, because they’re shaking. And you can’t stand still because if you do, you’ll lose your nerve. No wonder you're so skinny. Do you ever stop moving around?”

Nash laughed. Even watching the footage, the tremor in his voice was obvious. “Except, here’s your problem. I don’t give a fuck who you are, I’m in charge of this interrogation now, you got that?”

Harris had tilted his head, quietly looking amused. “Are you?”

“I’m not the one in handcuffs.” Nash smirked, leaning on the table at last. “So what does that tell you?”

Eames noticed it now. Harris had been fidgeting minutely with his hands under the table, but now he was relaxed again. It sent a strong chill up Eames' spine. He almost wanted to shout for Adeyemi to turn to the video off.

Harris had frowned, his eyes dropping to the table as he’d nodded solemnly. “That’s very true, sir. Very, very true.” A soft click sounded from Harris' lap before he placed the empty cuffs on the table. He’d laughed, his smile bright as Nash’s expression fell in shock. “Except, neither am I.”

Nash had stumbled back a step, his skin pale and his lip quivering. “How did you…”

Harris stood slowly. In the background Eames could hear shouting and scrambling from behind the glass as that door opened. “At first I thought I’d have to bite a hole in your neck if I couldn't get my hands free, but this is much better.”

Nash had had barely a second to blink before Harris lunged across the table, snapping his neck as he tackled him.

They could all see Nash’s body go slack through the footage as Harris crouched low over him. The voices outside the door grew louder still, beyond the camera’s view. 

“Eighty-five,” Eames and his team heard Harris mutter. "Good bye, Micha—"

“Turn it off,” Eames said, rubbing his face. “God damn it.”

Ariadne loosened her scarf, her hands shaking. "Was he about to say 'Michael'? W-who is that?"

Adeyemi stared at his computer screen. “I want everybody out of here right now— _except_  you, Eames!”

Eames moved to stand on the opposite side of the desk once the door was closed. “I take full responsibility for this.”

Adeyemi sat glaring at him for several minutes before he snapped, slamming his hands down on the desk. He stood, cursing and pacing. “You’re my best agent.”

“Flattered, but—”

“Shut up, Eames!” Adeyemi shouted. He took several breaths, and scratched his chin roughly, looking a little insane. “Go home.”

“What good is that? There are two killers on the loose right now and—”

“Go. Home." Adeyemi sighed. "Christ, Eames. You’ve done the Bureau wonders for years, but you’re…” 

Eames crossed his arms. “I’m what, Idris?”

“Much more than tired. And it’s cost us one of our own  _and_  four others today. So… Fuck it. Give me your badge. I'll call you once the board's made a decision.”

+

 

The drive home was quiet and torturously long that evening. Eames let the sound of the rain and the windshield wipers fill the silence.

Eames had always found the drive home soothing after a day of profiling and investigations, but…he felt numb, robotic, behind the wheel. In shock, really.

In twenty years, he’d never driven home this early, not when he was a detective, certainly not as an agent. Normal people who worked nine-to-fives were on the roads this time of evening, rushing home to prepare dinner for their families or to change clothes in preparation for a second job, rushing, and causing accidents along the slick roadside. At this rate, it would be dark anyways by the time he made it home in this traffic, but the point remained.

He didn’t bother with the radio, knowing that every station would be filled with speculative reports and false sightings, scaring their listeners and feeding on those ratings. Instead, he dared to check his messages as he got caught in deeper traffic heading into Arlington.

All were from his mother. The first was congratulations. The second began with her watching the press conferences and ended with her pleading Eames to take better care of his appearance again. All the rest were frantic calls made after Harris' escape.

Perfect. Now she, in England, knew, that after the Black Mamba had nearly chewed off his own hands in LA to escape arrest, that after he’d escaped capture in Houston by strangling the driver of the police car off a bridge into a river… After all that _and more_ , the only thing it had taken for him to escape federal custody was a stray lock of curling dark hair and Eames’ _inexplicable_ moment of naive charity.

His phone rang again. A big part of him wished that it was Adeyemi with good news, but it was his mother’s number on the dashboard.

He sighed before answering. “I was going to call you later, but—”

“William! Oh, thank heavens, boy, I was so worried! What on earth happened? I saw on the news that that man you’d been tracking killed five people more!”

Eames didn’t try to cut in, distracted by the hellhounds in pickup trucks weaving past the slower drivers to race each other as the clouds parted momentarily. She went on for several minutes more, rambling back and forth between Eames and her husband.

“William?”

“It's alright, mum. We’re still working.”

“Oh? It sounds like you’re in the car.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’m headed to one of the witness locations now.” He rubbed his face and beard, loosened his tie, feeling exhausted suddenly. “So, I’ll call you tomorrow, hm?”

“Alright, pumpkin—Oh hush, Harold, William doesn’t mind being called pumpkin, do you, son?”

Eames cleared his throat, watching the Pentagon pass by as he followed traffic towards DC. “I have to go, mum.”

What was he supposed to do when he got home? Relax? All those plans he’d had for his retirement, he simply wasn’t ready to slow down, not yet, particularly not with the Black Mamba roaming the streets again. That boy could be  _anywhere_. His accomplice could be anywhere. And Eames would have figured out where to find them, and when he did, he would not have made a mistake twice.

Oh well. This suspension wasn’t permanent, but only because they counted on Eames to crack first and resign. As much as Adeyemi and the board would love to fire him, his reputation made that impossible. They needed him to leave quietly on his own, dignified so that the Bureau could remain equally so.

They would force him to retire early. Not a chance in hell. This was Eames’ case and he was damn sure he would finish it.

Somehow.

Just...maybe tomorrow, when he didn't feel so very tired.

+

 

At home, he bundled up in a heavier coat and baited the fishing line on the little pier in his backyard. He sat on his back porch under the glow of his lantern with a book and ignored a few locals as they passed by in their boats.

Once he’d cleaned his catch and got it ready to bake in the oven, he showered, pausing in front of the mirror on his way out from the bathroom. He considered trimming his beard but he was still too tired for such things. It would have to wait until tomorrow, or some other day this week perhaps.

He dressed in a thick sweater that clashed with his sock pattern, but he didn’t notice, wouldn't care if he did. He was home, and he was alone, anyways. He shuffled out of his bedroom just as the timer went off for the oven.

Eames ate dinner at his kitchen table, watching the river's little waves shimmer in the neighbors' lights as it began to rain again, the low volume on the television in the living room the only noise.

Three things happened simultaneously as he put down his fork.

The first was that, when he glanced over his shoulder, he could see that the news was on. The anchors were frantically reporting that one of the FBI's representatives from the Los Angeles office, Adeyemi's man, Saito, had been assassinated by two bullets to his chest, during a press conference in DC ten minutes ago, live on the air.

The second thing was that, the only reason why he could see the TV from here was because the stack of books that once sat in a high column in the kitchen archway was missing.

Third, when he looked around his kitchen, he noticed that all of it was clean, the counters cleared and the dishes washed.

He stood slowly, turning around, amazed that he'd missed seeing this before. His living room was tidy as well.

Eames checked every room, his small gun tucked into the back of his trousers now. The rooms were clean, organized, all his possessions still in the house and many that he’d forgotten he’d had under all the junk that once stood in tall stacks throughout the house.

The doors and windows were all locked.

Eames rubbed the back his of neck. Maybe he did need a break. Maybe the imbalance he'd felt before was more serious than he'd thought, because most forty-one year-old men didn’t move about their houses wondering if they were in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

Nonetheless, when the hell had he cleaned his house? No, he  _hadn't_  cleaned his house. Where would he have found the time for that?

He sat his gun on the table once he’d made his way back into the kitchen and put his plate and empty glass into the sink.

He sighed, steeling himself when he saw for the first time the two shell casings from the Black Mamba's M16 beside him on the counter.

When he turned around, his gun was gone. 

Harris was leaning in the archway to the kitchen, the gun in his hands, counting the bullets. 

+

 


	3. Chapter 3

+

 

If Eames were any other kind of man, he might have been terrified, but he’d stared down death before.

“How the fuck did you get in here?”

“You drove me here,” Harris explained.

The hair on the back of Eames’ neck stood. “ _You were in my car_?” He was more than unnerved, not only by this blatant violation of his personal space, but by the fact that Harris had been in the parking lot of the police station all along while every agent and cop from here to Baltimore had been looking for him. Eames had even been on the phone with his mother when he was in his car, and in that timeframe,  _the_  Black Mamba had been right there,  _somewhere_ , the entire time.

Harris nodded. “I was in your car. I was in the ceiling over a broom closet for a few hours, but then, yes, I was in your car. It's a very nice car. Smells good, but you used to smoke. Why'd you quit?” 

Driven by his budding rage, Eames took a step forward. So did Harris, putting Eames much closer to the killer than he’d liked, even if they were in Eames’ kitchen,  _in his house_. 

Eames knew practically everything about the Black Mamba, particularly how he hunted, but this he'd never expected. Eames had been home for a good two hours by now. Harris had rifled through every single possession he had in that time.

And the way that Harris stood, confident,  _comfortable_ , there was no question as to whose territory this was now.

Eames was angry but he still backed down. “Well, boy, did you find what you were looking for?”

Harris' brow furrowed. “In your house? No. When you were outside, I saw a snake in here and tried to catch it but it got away, so I searched for it. Everywhere.” He waved around them.

Eames watched Harris' eyes search the floor. Harris turned around to look in the living room for it, completely at ease, knowing that Eames wouldn’t attack him.

Eames cleared his throat. “How big was it?”

“Huge,” Harris muttered before losing his train of thought. Eames was about to speak when Harris continued at last. “But then I realized that I haven’t taken my medication in about eighteen hours, so that was probably where the snake came from. I didn’t want to leave your house overturned, so I fixed it. It’s funny. Isn’t it? Cleaning. I mean, cleanliness on a spectrum is like a window into people’s insides. When you’re happy and well-adjusted, your house is outwardly clean, orderly. But then, if what’s inside you is chaos, then you hoard, or…” Harris resumed his examination of Eames’ gun as if he hadn’t been in the middle of a sentence.

Eames was floored. “Do you see the snake anymore?”

“No.”

Eames edged forward, letting his anger drown and be forgotten under his bewilderment. “Have you taken your medicine yet?”

“I don’t remember. I had to catch the snake.”

Eames' hope crumbled. Arthur Harris without his medication was a different person. This side of Arthur, Eames was certain, had to be the one responsible for all the murders that had made Harris seem so intent to wring as much blood from the body and in as many ways with as many weapons as possible—brutal, grotesque, sporadic.

As sporadic as he was right now.

He was beginning to understand this man, this  _boy_ , a little better. There was no way that this fragmented mind had been the one guiding Arthur through his hits, or maybe even his fine-tuned escapes. 

Eames swallowed and took a deep, deep breath. If he was going to regain the upper hand, he’d have to be smart about it. Arthur didn’t seem to be in a very dangerous mindset  _yet_ , but that could change pretty fast.

He softened his voice. “Don’t you think it’s time to take your medicine?”

“Should I?”

Eames shrugged, quickly raising his hands when Harris clicked the safety out of position and aimed the gun at Eames’ face. “You just…seemed more…put together earlier, that's all I meant, Arthur. That's all.”

"Oh." Arthur huffed and rubbed his bruised cheek, looking at Eames with suspicion. He nodded. “You’re right. Sorry.”

To Eames’ amazement, Harris put the gun on the table and walked away towards the living room.

Eames grabbed it quickly, not waiting for him to remember whatever he had had planned and come back for it. He crept into the living room after Arthur, listening to him rummage about for his little bottle of pills.

Harris' eyes zeroed in on Eames, angry. So much so that Eames hesitated.

"Arthur, boy," Eames said, edging closer, "you need help. I am willing to put in as good a word as I can to get you placed in a medical facility—the  _best_ , in fact—but you need to surrender quietly. Can you do that for me?"

Harris glared at him as he popped the pill in his mouth and swallowed it dry. He set the bottle back on the table. "Don't point that at me."

Eames could feel his palm sweat, holding the gun. "You haven't exactly given me a choice. After all, only one of us is an actual threat here."

"Then for your sake, either fire at my head right now, or put it down." 

"That doesn't give me a lot of leverage, Arthur."

Harris stepped forward.

When Eames responded by keeping the safety off, Arthur lunged at him, stabbing Eames in the ribs with something short and wide. He caught the gun and turned it on Eames again as the man stumbled away to the adjacent couch.

Eames grunted as he yanked the fork out of his ribs. The tiny wounds bled but they weren't serious. The pain was still enough to scare him out of any more rash attempts to save himself.

He caught his breath, clutching his aching side as Harris watched him from where he stood on the other side of the coffee table.

“You just fucking screwed yourself, Arthur," Eames panted. "I almost felt sorry for you, because it's clear you're just a nutter. You could have ended up in a hospital instead of prison.” Eames’ heart stopped for a second at the glare Harris leveled at him. “Wrong word choice. Sorry, sorry.”

“You're lying! And you're wrong. I don’t  _usually_ kill people because I…have a problem. I kill because,” Arthur chased after his train of thought, “I'm supposed to. I was made for it.”

“Of course you were, as are all psychopaths on your end of the spectrum, darling.”

“Do  _not_  condescend me," Arthur hissed. He'd been a stone's throw away from rushing over the coffee table separating them and emptying the gun into Eames' head, Eames was sure. Arthur's foot was still perched on the table's edge. 

Eames fell silent.

Arthur took several deep breaths. "I'm not a psycho, you idiot. I just...have a bad temper. And," he took another deep breath, calming down. "I was  _conditioned_  for it—killing—but, I don’t know why. I have lists of people that I have to get rid of and I do.”

“How am I involved?" Eames' felt a chill up his spine. "Am I on that list?”

Arthur gritted his teeth. "I wish." He eyed the clock on the wall and pinched the bridge of his nose, looking pained. “Damn it, none of this is even any of your business.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To warn you. Don’t try to stop me, don’t try to follow me anymore. It’s pointless.”

“I’m not letting you get away again.”

Arthur’s expression was unreadable for a long time before he spoke. “Look, two months ago, I found out something that…it changed things for me, okay?”

“Nothing too severe, I gather. You’re still a bloody killer.”

Arthur glared. “Keeping up appearances is kind of important, particularly when you learn that the person closest to you is…" he lowered his eyes, "an  _extremely_  bad person.”

“Worse than you?”

“The kind of person who would abduct a child and turn him into  _me_? Yes.”

“Conditioned, as you said, to kill?” It made sense now, Arthur's words about Eames' father. But Eames said nothing more, watching Arthur place the gun on the table. 

Arthur seemed so much more like the cool, collected young man who’d sat across from him in the interrogation room in this moment as if he were silently daring Eames to touch the gun.

Eames wouldn’t try, not yet. “So you expect me to forget about you and go after him instead? Exclusively?”

“Which killer is more ruthless, Eames? The one whose name and face finds its way in the papers and on the news, or the one hiding behind him, the one pulling the strings? I only have one reputation.  _This one_. But he has two, just like your dad did."

"I never condoned what he did, or joined him."

"I never had a choice. But it doesn't matter. I don’t have the same thirst for blood that he has. I have other priorities.”

“Namely?”

“ _Killing_  him. Repaying him the favor for selling me out, among everything else. Once he’s dead, he’s yours, but only if you let me go.”

Eames snorted. “And after that?”

“After that…finding my mother,” Arthur said, his voice wavering at the end. He cleared his throat. “If she's even still… There's going to be another killing tonight. Someone…important. Just now that it isn't mine."

Eames’ blood turned cold. Arthur was right. Only, the hit had already happened.

"Whose was it then, Arthur? Who are you working with? Tell me."

Arthur opened his mouth, but froze suddenly, his eyes looking right past Eames as if he wasn’t there. “You called the police,” he muttered, listening to the approaching sound of sirens.

Eames swallowed. “I did what I had to.”

Arthur’s jaw twitched, his eyes narrowing as his rage began to build up again, to the point that he shook with the force to not lose his temper. “You know I hate police, right?”

"Pretty sure they feel the same about you."

“Good. Which ones should I pick off first, then?" Arthur picked up the gun. "The sheriff’s deputies or the state troopers?”

Eames waited just long enough for Arthur to lift his leg to step over the coffee table before he pushed off the couch and tackled him to the floor, hearing Arthur’s head smack on the hardwood as he landed on top of the smaller man.

He’d expected the gun to go sliding across the floor, but it was still clutched in the dazed boy’s hand. Eames reached for it, but Harris moved faster, slamming his elbow into Eames’ jaw as he rolled, now straddling Eames.

But Arthur paused, empty-handed, feeling Eames press the gun to his stomach. He smirked. “I’m impressed, Eames. And just look at that fear in your pretty eyes. You really might just try to kill me this time, huh?”

"It wasn't wise, coming here, was it?" Eames swallowed as his two-handed grip tighten.

Arthur ignored the gun, completely careless and sure as he planted one hand beside Eames’ head and grasped his jaw tight in the other, the gun digging into his flesh. He leaned down so close, their bodies pressing together in a _bad_ way, stirring things in Eames he did not want to think about. Not now, not ever as far as Arthur Harris and a gun were concerned.

Eames shivered as Arthur whispered against the shell of his ear, “You’re lucky that I like you, William Eames. And, if I'm allowed to disagree with your mother, I think a good thick beard is lovely, especially when tickling up some lucky lover's thighs, don't you think?”

Eames jerked his head away, hissing, “You ought to be grateful that I’d rather talk to you than kill you.”

Harris laughed, shaking his head. He raised his hands in surrender as the cops broke the door in and circled him. “Well, too bad. If you’re smart you’ll take my advice and stay away from me.”

+

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

+

 

Eames didn’t know what he’d been expecting once Harris was taken away, but it certainly wasn’t Adeyemi’s response.

“That was a fucking close one. Good job, Eames.” Adeyemi patted him on the back as they watched the heavily shackled and bound Harris get transported out of the police van into the station. “Now get out of here.”

“What? I bloody caught hi—”

The director spun on him quick, a finger pointed at Eames' chest. “Have we forgotten whose fuck-up helped the Black Mamba escape in the first place? So soon, Eamesie?”

Eames tossed up his hands. He cared nothing for the attention they were getting now. “I don’t believe this!”

Adeyemi's smile was forced when he glanced at a few circling reporters before he led Eames off to the side with a hand on his back. “You did good catching him quick," he sighed, "but that doesn’t change the fact that your slip up cost us Nash  _and_ Saito. Go home, mate. Let the Board finish their review.”

Eames silently fumed, grinding his teeth for a moment as Adeyemi turned to walk away. “He talked to me, Idris.”

That stopped Adeyemi in his tracks.

Eames' eyes locked with Arthur’s as the police dragged the bloodied man inside the building on a restraint chair, surrounded by police and the press and their flashbulbs. When he looked to the director, Adeyemi was all ears now. “Even with a gun to my head, I still got him to talk. He was about to give me the name of his accomplice," Eames stressed. "He’s not going to do that for anyone else. I’m sure of it. I am.”

“And that attachment is  _dangerous_ , Eames," Adeyemi stressed in return. He chuckled, rubbing his chin as his attention drifted momentarily to two cops leaving the building. They were already boasting, one smacking his fist against his palm, no doubt retelling some story of beating Arthur either tonight or the night before.

For some reason it gave Eames chills. Those men were much, much bigger than Arthur. What on earth would happen to him now that he was back under their thumb?

"What's the point of any of that now, hm?" Adeyemi shrugged. "He's guilty, Eames, and he will be prosecuted. Case closed."

Eames balked. "Have you gone insane? It's not over. He told me so, Idris. What about the other murders?"

" _Eames_ ," the director cautioned, his voice a low rumbling growl as he shoke his head at Eames. "Get. Off. It. He’s a pretty boy, but you need to start thinking with the head up top, for god’s sake. You know as well as I do that these monsters will say anything to get off the chopping block and I'm sure the tale he spun for you was just bloody heartwarming and perfectly innocent, wasn't it? Don't fall for it  _again_ , Eames. This case is done." Adeyemi patted Eames' shoulder and guided him away from the reporters who were drawing close again. "Now enjoy the drive back to Maryland, get some rest, relax, go fishing tomorrow, and… I’ll call you. Yeah?”

Eames wanted to punch whoever's car he stood next to, but instead he nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

 

Eames drove home alone, watching a sleepy truck driver drift from lane to lane before they turned off to a rest station.

When he pulled into his driveway, his door had already been replaced, thankfully. He collapsed on his bed, his shoes and his drizzle-wet coat still on him.

What was the point of caring anymore? He'd tried, he'd failed. Harris' accomplice would kill again, and there was nothing he could do to stop that.

It was onward to resigning and retiring for him now. He'd had enough of fighting a cause that nobody else even believed in.

Hell, after all this, he deserved a break, and to be as far away from the Black Mamba case as possible.

**+**

 

When Eames woke up the next morning, he took Adeyemi’s advice to heart.

He fixed his normal, plain breakfast, talked to his mother, showered, postponed calling his book agent and the university again, and ignored his neighbors as he got in his car.

All the siren lights and ‘guests’ of last night had the quiet riverfront community in a buzz about the reclusive investigator 'bringing his work home,' as they'd called it. Well, he'd be damned if he gave them any fuel to fire their brunches and mailbox chatter.

Eames took a drive into town, bought some books, bait, a new fishing pole… and returned home to find the evidence bag housing Arthur Harris’ glasses and his prescription bottle still on the coffee table, where they'd been placed by the man himself.

He trailed his fingers over the bottle top, replaying Arthur’s ‘visit’ in his mind. 

The same doubt he'd felt in the interrogation room came back.

What if Adeyemi was wrong?

Too often, the man was blinded by his ego. For Adeyemi, the bottom line wasn’t about justice, but about meeting a quota. Get as many convictions as quickly as possible, and if the crimes continue, write it off as the work of copycats, or brand new cases, without a dime of resources spent to even wonder if the convicted could have been wrongfully accused, working with a partner, or a copycat themself. It had been bad enough at least two or three times that Eames had to race against the clock to stop a predator before they could make more victims, only to have to race to profile and catch the right person, or _people_ , before Adeyemi expedited in the middle of the case again. It made Eames' head spin.

None of these cases were personal for Adeyemi, for any of the agents in Eames’ team, the way they were for Eames.

Forget the thrill of chases and stakeouts, forget the fame of catching criminals made popular by the drama-hungry press. Eames’ sole mission, the only reason he got up in the morning, was for the victims and doing what he could to prevent more people from being victimized.

Eames picked up his phone, intent to call Yusuf, the technical analysts, but then set it down.

It was tempting. He could have Yusuf look into Harris’ claims, see what Harris may have been hinting at, and confirm that the young man had just been off his rocker. 

 _Or_  he could wash his hands clean and let the Bureau deal with it all.

He dialed Yusuf on his cell, rather than the Bureau’s line to the tech’s self-proclaimed ‘bear cave.’

Yusuf picked up almost at once. “Something tells me I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

Eames bristled, glaring at the phone for a moment. “Why the bloody hell not?”

“Because if it’s legal, you always send Ariadne to work with me—Thank you, by the way. She’s…  _very_  charming—and if it’s something that could potentially get me fired, you yourself turn up, sir.”

“Will you ever get fired, Yusuf?”

“ _No_ …but I’m a natural worrier! So—”

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose. “Aren’t you always  _excited_  and  _curious_  as well?”

Yusuf sighed. “Yes,” he said reluctantly. “I have a feeling this will be a good one—Why aren’t you in the office?”

“No one told you?”

It took a minute for Yusuf to respond. “Okay, now I’m worried, Eames. If  _you_  can get in trouble then I know I can as well. Probably faster!”

“Then this call stays between us.”

“Yes, sir...”

“Oh, don’t sound so frightened, boy. I’ve just got an itch that needs scratching, that’s all. Arthur Harris' parents. Who are they?" 

Yusuf searched. "I've got here a Martin Harris, husband to Margret Harris, a noted psychiatrist, who, it says in this news clipping, was nearly killed in a car accident a few months ago. Hm. No current address, however. Looks like they bounce around a lot."

"How many unsolved murders are there in relation to the cities where they've lived?”

Yusuf snorted. “You are aware, sir, that I don’t have clones working with me, and even if I had clones, none of us would have the time to sift through this many—”

“What about double homicides?”

“Again, I—”

“More than five?”

“That narrows it down a hair's length. I’m still swimming here.”

Eames rubbed his beard, thinking. “Can you cross-reference any of them with the neighborhoods, by chance, instead of the cities at large?” He could hear Yusuf’s rapid typing and clicking. “No?”

“For god sake,” Yusuf snapped, “let me bloody finish!” He gasped at himself. “Uh, sorry, sir, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine, it’s fine. Point taken. My apologies.”

Yusuf stuttered. “Uh, okay. I just—It takes a while."

"I understand." Eames waited, circling his kitchen, his living room. He stood in front of the window, watching a man teach his daughter how to wash their boat. He tapped his fingers on the cold sink as the minutes ticked by, feeling more and more that Adeyemi had been correct.

"Oh, this here is really interesting! I've got a report from a small paper in Alaska that lists them, along with half the town, as having moved after five families were murdered over the course of a  _weekend_. Bloody hell!"

Eames' eyes grew wide. He turned to lean on the counter. "Tell me everything."

"Says here, the oldest boys' bodies, five of them, were found in the woods mangled and frozen solid. It was originally assumed that they'd stumbled into traps and were attacked by wild animals or something, but some of them had been shot. _And_  the parents and other siblings where also found in their houses. Only way the boys could be identified was because their families were also dead, those boys were that bad off. The Bureau immediately took over the case, as it seems that the town didn’t really have a strong police force back then, but the case is still unsolved.”

Eames couldn’t formulate his words at first. He swallowed, ignoring the bad feeling budding in his stomach. He ran a hand over his face.

“Uh oh," Yusuf whispered, "I have to go. Eames…you might want to look at the news. Like, right now. Bye.”

Eames frowned at the phone, huffing. He turned on the TV.

On the screen flashed breaking news that a journalist was killed leaving his studio.

Two bullets in the chest.

Eames sighed, long-winded. He needed to pay Arthur Harris a visit.

+

 


	5. Chapter 5

+

 

When Eames arrived at the police station the next day, Adeyemi’s team were out in Alexandria. Yet another journalist had been shot that morning.

It was enough to have the station in chaos with cops scrambling everywhere with a second team of profilers called in for desperately needed help.

The young officer at the front desk hadn’t even thought to check Eames for a badge, recognizing his face. He led Eames to Arthur Harris immediately and was glad to give them space, standing at the door, when Eames asked for privacy.

Arthur was, for lack of a better term, sitting in a cage, far away from the jail cells, with his hands and feet still shackled and his jumpsuit sleeves tied at the waist.

"Mr. Harris," Eames greeted in as cheery a voice as he could muster. "Enjoyed your first night in jail?" He could see pale red spots on Arthur's white t-shirt. Arthur’s lip was busted again, his wrist scraped near raw under the cuffs, and his knuckles dark. Bruises littered his neck, his arms, disappearing under his short sleeves.

“I was put in holding with over twenty other men,” Arthur explained, distracted, "still shackled."

Eames winced, half-heartedly. “Like a chained lamb in a den of wolves.”

Arthur smiled, his bloody lip shining in the harsh fluorescent lighting. “This little lamb got about a dozen wolf pelts out of the deal.” When Eames’ mouth went slack, Arthur chuckled. “ _Figuratively_ , of course. No one died. I think. Guards had to drag me off of them while the rest of the hotheads were pissing themselves under the benches in terror. I like it here.”

Eames stopped holding his breath. He cleared his throat. “Is that why you’re in timeout?”

“I think I bit someone.” Arthur had a far away look in his eyes again. Eames watched him brush some invisible thing off his arm. He blinked and tried to rub the tiredness out of his face before he tilted his head at Eames. “Did you come all the way here just shoot shit with me?”

Eames stepped closer, cautiously, reminded of the time as a boy when he’d almost gotten his hand bitten off by the neighbor’s vicious dog when he'd stood too close to their fence. “Three more murders have happened since you were either in my home or in here,” he muttered, mindful of the guards and young cop at the door who were busy sharing conversation. “One of them was ours. Important. Just like you’d said.”

Arthur’s chains rattled and clinked as he stood and lifted his hands to hold the cage bars. His bruised fingers slid through the diamond shaped holes of the crisscrossing cage fencing as if he were holding a lover's hands. He rested his bruised cheek against the bars, looking neglected. “It’s not over.” He glanced up at Eames. “He isn’t finished yet.”

“Then tell me who he is."

Arthur lowered his eyes and sighed. “Does the name Dominic Cobb ring any bells for you?”

It did. Half the FBI had bones to pick with Mr. Cobb, for everything from drug smuggling to mob hits, but had nothing solid enough to bring him in and keep him planted. He was good at hiding, if not anything else in the world.

Arthur read Eames’ silence for confirmation. “How about Martin Harris?”

Eames nodded. “Your father.”

“Dom Cobb  _is_ Martin Harris.” Arthur shook his head at the slight change in Eames’ expression. "Someone hasn't been doing their connect-the-dots worksheets."

"Cobb is your partner—Your  _father_?" 

“For years, Cobb’s given me my targets, but before then, we’d always hunt together. It started with a... 'massacre,' in Alaska, when I was a kid. Bullies."

"You mean _boys_?"

"Vicious ones. Dad protected me, showed me his work, the steps. He taught me how he plans and executes, how to cover my tracks, until I designed my own 'method'.” He teasingly shot at Eames' chest twice with his hands for emphasis and chuckled, pacing in the tiny cage, his gaze imploring Eames, entrancing in its wildness. “You know exactly why I’m telling you this. You know that I'm not the one in charge. He will keep killing. He will continue to make it look like I did it, too, every time, just like in those photos you’d showed me.”

"Tell me how to find him," Eames urged quietly.

Arthur shook his head, playing with his chains. “How long did you look for me? How long were the police and FBI able to keep me?” He grinned just faintly. “Where do you think I learned all my magic tricks? You can’t find him. Only I can, and when that happens, I'll let you bring him here in a body bag.”

Eames stepped to the bars before he could think about it, but Arthur had already turned his back. “There are lives at stake here, Arthur. Tell me you don’t care.”

“I don’t. You shouldn’t either.”

“You’re lying.”

“Was I lying when I killed my own?”

“You said it's different for you now.”

Arthur sat on the hard bench and snorted, rolling his eyes at Eames' point. “ _You’re_  crazy if you think you'll win this.”

"You're searching for Mallorie Cobb?"

"I'm searching for my _real_ mother," he hissed. "Mallorie Cobb is as much a fake as her husband."

“Alright, then. I'll help you find her.”

Silence fell between them, though the officers' murmuring voices and quiet chuckles and the telltale patter of a ceiling leak filled the air.

Arthur’s eyes rose slowly, searching Eames.

“I have the resources,” Eames pushed on. “I can help you figure out who your mother is, Arthur.”

Arthur's mouth opened to speak, but no words could come out. He swallowed, frowning. “Well…you should've thought about that before you got me arrested again.”

Eames glared under his lashes. “Right. Murder dozens of innocent people, but _I’m_ wrong because, like you, I don’t appreciate having a gun pointed at me.”

Arthur looked as if he meant to lunge and snap, but he clenched his jaw, holding it in. “Go home. It’s over for you.”

“No, no, no, it doesn’t have to be. You can help me stop Cobb. You can get your payback, and you can get the information that you want.” 

Eames sat down, waiting for Arthur to respond as the minutes ticked by, but he soon relented, not willing to risk running into Adeyemi in the chance that the team returned to the station. “Good bye, Mr. Harris. I’ll see you in court.”

“Maybe.”

Eames paused in his slow retreat. He turned and studied Arthur, contemplating something in a last effort. “Just tell me something, alright? I just want to know one thing and then I’ll leave you alone to stew in peace.  Why did Dom Cobb rat you out after all these years?”

Arthur clenching his jaw again, sighing deep. He glared as the anger Eames had seen last night in his house came back to life. “I found out two months ago that Martin and Margret Harris weren't my real parents when Margret needed a kidney transplant after her accident. Martin was…  _conveniently_  absent, as always, but since they both have A-type blood, his absence wasn't a problem. Surely as their son, I’d have the same blood, right? I’d have been a perfect candidate for her. Well, when I was tested, I found out that I have type-B. Oops. I confronted her, and got little to no answer. Then Martin came back. Same thing."

"So, you started digging for your own answers?"

"I started digging, yes. Before you got me, I'd discovered that I was taken from my mother very young when she was admitted into a hospital on the west coast. Mal encouraged me to stop, Dom  _threatened_ , but every time they looked away, I kept going. Soon after, I figured out Dom and Mal’s real names.  _That_ , I guess was enough for Cobb, the man who had pretended to be my father for over a decade, and still does, to decide that I needed shutting up.”

Arthur rose to his feet and started to circle in the tiny space again, his fingers clasped. “He doesn’t get it. I wasn’t after them or whatever they've got going on behind my back. I just… I just wanted to find her. I want to know who I am and why I'm so… Now I'm going to find them both.”

“Right…” Eames put his hands in pockets. “Perhaps by some incredible miracle, you  _won’t_  die in prison, and then you can—”

“How do I know I can trust you?” Arthur clutched the bars, his open expression surprising Eames.

Eames dared to stand within Arthur’s reach, leaning his shoulder against the cage to whisper, “Help me to get inside Cobb's head, and I’ll see what I can do."

"And after?"

"What happens once he’s in custody? We'll have to wait and see, won't we?”

Arthur’s glance moved past Eames to eye the guards before he quickly looked back. He bit his lip as he thought quickly.

At last, he nodded at Eames. “I’ll be moved to a more secure unit tomorrow.”

Eames nodded back, feeling a massive weight leave his shoulders. “I’ll be there the day after for a chat then, once you get settled in.”

Eames turned to leave again. When he reached the door, he heard Arthur mutter, “Don’t rush.”

+ 

 


	6. Chapter 6

+

 

Eames' room was dark when he woke again from another nap that evening. He couldn’t believe that he’d slept so long. He reached for his phone and had a hearty chuckle at himself for thinking Adeyemi might have called.

He was still laughing at himself as he headed for the kitchen. He’d cooked dinner early and left it in the toaster oven to keep it warm while he'd slept.

He turned on a lamp in the living room when he passed through, just in time to see a hand carefully slide open the small glass pane above the backdoor at the end of the kitchen.

Eames turned on the kitchen light and stood there, staring in muted shock as the person first slipped a wet, stuffed plastic bag through the opening. Their slender hands dripped dirty water down Eames' white door as they gripped the bottom of the arch over the frame and began to squeeze through it.

“Well,” Eames breathed, shaky, trying to get a grip on his erratic heart, “I see how you got in here the first time…”

Arthur grunted, more water pouring off of him as he wiggled and pushed. He broke his fall but still let himself collapse onto the tiled floor. He was soaking wet and looked utterly exhausted, dazed and shivering.

“However," Eames continued quietly, "I’m positive that I didn’t drive you here this... this time around.” He swallowed. “Arthur?”

Arthur got his arms under him and propped himself up enough to look at Eames. He spit out a razor blade before lying back down, his eyes closed. “You… live…” he took a deep breath, filling his lungs, “ _really_ … really far… from… where you work… Mr. Eames.”

There was muddy water all over the floor now. Eames still stared at him as he reached down slowly, picking up the blade. “Did you  _swim_  here? How the bloody fuck did you even get—”

“Boats, truck tail beds, more boats…” Arthur rolled over onto his back. “I did swim that last part. Hid in the river until it got dark.” He blinked up at Eames, his hands laced over his middle as he caught his breath. “It smells good in here. I hope I’m not interrupting anything. Am I? I can always come back.”

Eames snapped. “You know I can’t accept this, correct? You have to go back to prison! This is not at all what we’d agreed to!”

“I’d rather this than a phone behind glass. I can think a lot clearer when I’m not bound in chains.” 

As dazed as Arthur was, he still gave Eames a look that said this argument was over.

Eames put his head in his hands, rubbing his face. “Jesus Christ.”

He popped his leftovers from lunch into the microwave, not understanding at all why he placed the bowl of warmed soup on the floor next to Arthur. He pulled out the nearest chair and sat down with his dinner, his appetite waning. Even with Arthur lying on the floor, eating at the table with an escaped serial killer in his house seemed horrifically domestic.

Arthur struggled to push himself up until he could sit with his back to the cabinet doors under the sink. He put the bowl in his lap and slowly began to eat. “I would have come back sooner," he said, mostly to himself it seemed, after a few spoonfuls, "but it didn’t seem practical to run around the station looking for my things, so I waited until I was being moved.” He reached over for his bag and tore it open, his clothes inside. “Just so you know, if you’re now having second thoughts about me, this would be the best time to act on that.”

He was right. Arthur couldn’t flee or attack even if he wanted to. There was no telling how long he'd been without food, no telling just how far he’d swam against that river without getting sucked into the Chesapeake Bay. This Black Mamba was aptly named. Arthur was a dangerous, unstoppable person, but right now, his tank was empty. If Eames called the police this time, it would be over in a matter of seconds without the possibility of a third escape.

Eames’ mind raced. He considered the interrogation, Nash’s crooked throat, Saito, the fork in his own ribs… It made his mind reel just to consider that that man and this boy sitting on his floor were the same person. 

Until it dawned on him. Arthur wasn't in control of the situation this time around. This time, Eames had Arthur's pills.

Eames sat back, breathing a little easier. “Do you need your medication?”

Arthur's jaw tightened for a moment, just faintly, but enough for Eames to catch it before it was gone. He looked up at Eames through his lashes. “Please.”

Eames left Arthur alone in the kitchen to fetch his medicine. He poured Arthur a glass of water and watched Arthur’s hands shake and almost drop the glass before the boy sat it down on the floor beside him.

Mindlessly, Eames bent over and helped him get the cap off the pill bottle. He paused, feeling their closeness. Arthur was gazing at his parted lips. Eames quickly decided to put just one pill in Arthur's hand and kept the rest.

He stepped back, putting distance between them again. “How many pills are left?”

Arthur drained the glass. He sighed, thinking. “Not many.”

Eames sat down, always little astounded by the high dosage on the label. He didn’t recognize the name at all. He would have to ask Yusuf. “How many times a day do you take these?”

“Three.”

“I'm guessing you don't get your refills at a pharmacy."

"Margret.  _Mallorie_. She’s been my psychiatrist since I was a kid.”

“Can you trust her?”

The tightness in Arthur's jaw returned as he looked away. “I’m not sure.”

"So that leaves us a very short window of time for me to harbor you before…”

“Before I go nuts?” Arthur looked self-conscious as he stared at the bottle in Eames' hands. He lowered his eyes back to the floor. “Yeah.”

"We don't want that, do we?"

Rather than answer, Arthur kicked off his shoes and wet socks. He shimmied out of his jumpsuit, revealing a black mamba tattooed on his hip beneath his thin briefs and his undershirt. The white fabric of both was so obscenely translucent, as wet as it was. The snake's gray neck, head and ink black tongue peeked through his soaked shirt near his navel, the tail disappearing behind his upper thigh. 

Eames read the side effects stickers on the bottle to distract himself, wondering how long he’d be able to get away with having these pills before Arthur could regain his strength and take them back by force. The thought of being attacked in his sleep put a damper on his arousal quickly, thankfully.

He dared to study Arthur again. The boy just sat there in his puddle, rubbing his cheek every few seconds. “Nasty bruise you got there,” he said to him, at once surprised by the warmth he felt seeing Arthur’s dimples again.

Arthur’s ears went a little pink as well. “I fell on the way to the transport van.”

“Straight into a cop’s fist, huh?”

“ _Really_  big fist. Several of them. I seem to fall a lot when I’m around people who are bigger than me. Especially police.”

Eames huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, that does tend to happen when you acquire a reputation as a cop killer. They don’t like that.”

“You say ‘they’ instead of ‘we’ as if you yourself were never one of them,” Arthur muttered, looking at him with amazement before he smirked. “Don’t feel too bad. I’ve never been good at fitting into boys clubs either. You know, they talk about you a lot. When they were beating me on the way to the station from that airport, they had loads to say about you, but in my opinion, they're all idiots. You intimidate them. You should feel good about that.”

Eames stared at the table for a long time before he snorted suddenly, laughing in disbelief as the situation at last sunk in.

He pushed his plate aside. “Tell me something, Arthur. If I’m to trust you, if I’m… If we’re going to work together… Arthur, you need to be honest with me, always.” When Arthur looked his way, Eames continued. “You told me that you’d been conditioned to kill. That you have a list, correct?”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Yes. When Dom decided that I was old enough to work alone, he'd give me lists of maybe eight or ten people at a time, while he had his own targets in neighboring cities. Once that list was done, he'd give me another.”

"What drives him? How does he choose?" 

When Arthur shrugged, Eames nodded, thinking. “I know you were here when Saito was shot and in jail when the other recent murders happened, but… I stopped you, at the airport, before you were able to carry out one of your listed hits, didn’t I?”

Arthur put down the empty bowl. He clasped his hands in his lap and crossed his bruised legs. “You did. A senator.”

“Is that target still in danger, Arthur?”

“I haven't seen the news in a while, but it’s very likely.”

“By you?”

“I told you, I have other priorities n—” His expression faltered. "Oops.”

Eames stood quickly, his hand on his phone, ready to make the call to save that life. “Who are they?”

Arthur clambered up from the floor, unsteady as he made his way to the living room television,  _bafflingly_  mindful of getting any water on Eames’ wood floor. 

Eames followed. Looking at the news headline, his shoulders sank. The senator was already dead. Shot in front of her house, right on the steps. Not just her, but two doctors and a top FDA employee in two other locations.

Eames stood there, his brain drawing blanks. He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe that it could’ve have been stopped, if only…

Arthur sat down on the floor. Without warning he slammed down his fist, startling Eames, and took several deep breaths, trying to stay calm even as he shook with that anger. “Eames, he’s killed my last four targets. That was our only lead to finding him! Jesus, we’ve never killed this many in one fucking day. Now you and I are screwed.”

“Wait—”

“We wasted too much time,” Arthur gritted out, his glare on Eames when he heard the floorboards creak as Eames took a step back behind him. “If I didn’t have to break out and swim a fucking river, we could have had him! Now he won't resurface for god only knows how long!”

Eames swallowed, crossing his arms as soon he noticed that he’d risen them protectively the moment Arthur stood. “We won’t waste anymore time. Okay?”

Arthur’s stare chilled Eames to the bone. He pushed his wet hair back and nodded after a small eternity. “Good.”

+

 

Before the hour had passed, Eames found his living room littered in his notes from the past crime scenes. His head throbbed just thinking about how long it would take to go through them all. Just the same, it felt surprisingly good to dive into a new case.

“Right, Mr. Harris. Where do we start?”

What was better, this time, Adeyemi and his agents couldn’t get in his way. And Arthur Harris,  _the_  Black Mamba, was pacing nearly naked in front of him, _helping_ him.

Sure, Dom Cobb was his top priority, but… that didn’t change the fact that he’d chased Arthur for five years and now here he was, scary still, but in no way the fire-breathing red dragon that Eames had expected.

But Eames wasn’t a fool. As soon as he had what he needed, he’d send Arthur Harris straight back to the police and their loving embrace and Eames could then retire in peace. He was thrilled.

Arthur crossed his arms, moving stiffly, as if his muscles were sore. “Narrow them down.” He rubbed his ear. “The public murders are the only ones assigned and planned for, unlike my… mistakes.”

“Mistakes?”

“I told you, I have a temper."

"A temper that makes you brutally murder innocent people?"

Arthur studied the floor for a long time. "Innocent. Right," he muttered. From the evidence bag that Nash had kept Arthur’s medication, Arthur removed his glasses and put them on, looking even younger to Eames. He picked up one of the folders and skimmed Eames' notes. "I don’t like being around anybody when I’m off my medication, but for some reason, I'm a walking magnet for trouble on my bad days.” He rubbed his ear again. “I’ve been working on it though.”

Eames’ expression was hopefully unreadable as he put down one folder and opened another. “How’s that panned out for you thus far?”

“I haven’t opened anyone’s throat in—” What little sliver of spirit Arthur'd let show faded as Eames was sure Arthur now remembered killing Nash and the bystanders. He looked away. "I just said I'm working on it."

"Sure. Of course."

They fell silent as the folders of notes grew smaller and smaller.

Eames watched him walk in a slow circle, his eyes drifting every now and then to take in Arthur’s form. Lean, athletic. He reminded Eames of a wild animal, a serious predator, which was why it concerned him that he could even look at Arthur in any way other than with anger and panic.

His mother was right. Eames did need to get out and try dating or  _something_ , if he was looking at a mass murderer as attractive.

Arthur cut through his puzzled thoughts. “Can I take a shower? I’m pretty sure I smell like river and jail. It's distracting.”

“Oh. Right. Sure.” Eames cleared his throat and averted his eyes when Arthur stripped out of his last garments right there in the middle of the living room. 

Arthur only had two other tattoos. A small black orchid sat nestled on his back between his shoulder blades. Its striking soft pink and yellow-speckled middle stood in bright contrast to its dark and eerie petals. When he faced Eames again, Eames could make out a small, simple outline of what he assumed was a mountain at the base of his sternum.

Arthur walked past him into the kitchen to fetch his bag of clothes. “Thanks. I’ll clean up when I’m done.”

“Don't worry about it. I'll cle— _Oh, piss off_ ," he barked at Arthur's expression. "I know how to clean a floor, Arthur, thank you _very_ much.”

The naked boy's brow rose as he snickered and raised his hands in surrender, walking past Eames again, swaying his hips. There were faint scars on his bruise-spotted skin, a tale of years spent on the wrong side of the law. But the little dimples on his lower back were as startlingly misplaced on this vicious killer as the dimples on his face when he smiled that wicked smile. This man, this devil, was beautiful.

Eames watched him disappear into the bathroom and sank low on the couch.

He unleashed a great gust of air from his lungs when he heard the water turn on.

+

 


	7. Chapter 7

+

 

He paced the floor where Arthur had done the same.

This was madness. Eames’ life had been ruined by a killer. He’d trusted his father and had been betrayed. What made Arthur Harris' case any different?

Eames put the pill bottle in his personal bathroom medicine cabinet, locked it, and cleaned up the muddy kitchen floor.

He turned on the back porch light and peeked outside. It was quiet out, dark, but most of the houses had well lit yards. Eames could see a muddy handprint on the side of his boat and how the grass had been disturbed right up to the porch steps.

It baffled him that no one had seen Arthur sneak in. Thinking about it made Eames shiver. For all he knew, his elderly neighbors and the families beyond could all be butchered in their houses right now. What if that was why? After all, a significant chunk of the assassinations in Harris’ case files were actually Dom Cobb’s work, but all those others, those bloody mangled others, Arthur had taken responsibility for without hesitation.

Arthur Harris was the only thing he had to taking down Dom Cobb, but… at what price? Eames had a plan to arrest Arthur as soon as he had what he needed but what if Arthur had a plan of his own for Eames?

The screen door opening and closing on the house next door distracted him. He frowned, watching the young man who lived in the house beside the old woman’s argue with her as her dog peed in the his flowerbed again. So maybe Arthur  _hadn’t_  killed his neighbors, but how long would Eames be able to say the same about his own safety?

“Hey?” The quiet voice startled Eames.

Arthur was redressed in the black aran-style sweater and tight black jeans he’d first been arrested in. He was still toweling his hair. “You up for a road trip?” 

“Oh yeah?”

“Quick one." Arthur folded the towel neatly before placing it on the kitchen table. "We need to see the new crime scenes.”

“You mean,  _I_  need to see them,” Eames said, pointing at his own chest before pointing at Arthur's. “ _You_  need to stay here before you end up back with your best friends at the dog pound, darling.”

Arthur huffed, his ears turning red again. “You don’t know what to look for. I do.”

Eames meant to argue, but thought it over. He fought the urge to grumble. “How am I supposed to get you there?”

Arthur smiled. “Same way as the first.”

“How are you getting in my car?”

Arthur blinked. “You have a garage,” he slowly explained.

Eames blinked back. “During your…bizarre act of house cleaning, you didn’t see what my garage looks like, did you?”

Arthur rolled his eyes and stepped forward. He stood with only an inch of space between them as he brazenly reached for one of the coats on the rack behind Eames. “I did see it. Obviously you haven’t in a while. Come on.”

Eames grabbed another coat and his keys and followed Arthur to the laundry room’s back door leading to the _spotless_ garage.

Eames bristled, scratching his beard before he balled his fists at his sides. His dinner wasn’t sitting well in his stomach anymore. His voice was low, flat when he asked, “Where did all my things go?”

Arthur swam in Eames’ coat but didn’t seem to mind as he looked around the cleaned space. “It’s all here still. There was a place for every piece junk, on the shelves, desk, boxes…cabinets…more shelves. Just needed to be picked up and put somewhere, that’s all.”

He glanced at Eames when the man didn’t speak. “What?”

“Nothing.” Eames cleared his throat. “I’ll go bring the car in.”

+

 

Seeing yellow police tape in DC’s Rock Creek Park was nothing new; a fact its upstanding residents loathed, no doubt.

The poorly lit streets gave them cover. Eames turned off the car and sat watching Harris Houdini himself out through the Tuscon’s backdoor. In Eames’ big coat, walking sideways as he tried to get the zipper up, Arthur looked like someone in this neighborhood’s son walking home late in the drizzle. As seemingly innocuous as ever.

How on earth did Arthur pull it off? Of course, maybe that was the trick, then, Eames thought. Cuteness to get in the door and then, a knife’s in your gut.

Eames huffed. He snuck into the house through the back after Arthur, his flashlight the only light in the deserted house.

“Everything’s been combed over already,” he told Arthur.

“No, no. Just the obvious stuff outside, where she was shot,” Arthur said, going through the house quickly, his eyes taking in as much as he could in the limited light. “Your people already think I did this, so…what purpose would they have to treat this like her killer or the motive is a mystery, right? They took the body, cleaned the driveway and moved on to the next crime scene."

“Then shouldn’t we be there instead? At the _last_ scene, in fact?”

Arthur shook his head, crouching in front of a pile of split papers in her study. “You know me, Mr. Eames. Since when do I shoot politicians on their doorsteps or even in their houses? My ordered hits are always public. This mess here  _inside_  the house? These papers? Investigators wouldn't have come in here without reason. This is Cobb.”

“Okay. We may be aware of this, but it’s not exactly sufficient for warranting Cobb’s arrest.”

Arthur looked up at Eames with an odd, annoyed expression, not saying anything.

“What? You don’t honestly think I’m going to allow you to kill that man, do you?”

Arthur continued to stare a moment longer. He studied the papers near his feet, his brow furrowed. “He took something from these documents,” he muttered to himself, “but what?”

“ _Arthur_.” Eames crossed his arms.

“You know how I work, Eames. I can't let him live.”

“I refuse to let you kill one more person, regardless of who they are. If you expected more from me, I'm sorry.”

“Then you can expect  _him_  to kill me,  _and_  you, instead. But, it's fine. It's fine. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. Right now, you want to form a pattern, so why don’t you help? It’d be much more productive. He took several pages out of this proposal, but we've never took anything before, so this has to be important.” He rolled up of the papers and stuffed them into his coat. "Get me to the next spot."

They snuck into all the crime scenes that they could that night. Adeyemi and the team where still surveying the last one while half of the forensics team were still examining the shooting right before it.

Arthur was right. There was a pattern... of documents, USB drives, and even photos,  _that Arthur stole himself_  off of each dead person property. Other than that, Eames was coming up blank. One thing, however, was that Arthur held the keys to all the answers, Eames surely hoped. 

+

 

When they returned to Eames’ home, he helped Arthur sift through the top of the little stack, comparing the information.

Time and again, Eames found himself holding his breath as Arthur reached for a page of notes on the coffee table to review, on his hands and knees, before he’d sit back on the floor, his arm almost touching Eames’ leg.

His warmth was…distracting. Eames wanted to move away to the opposite couch, but… when he glanced past his own papers, all he could do was fight the urge to reach out his hand and touch the nape of Arthur’s neck where it peeked from the stretched collar of his sweater, or run his hand through Arthur’s curling hair.

“Yes?” Arthur turn his head in Eames’ direction, his lips parted.

“Hm?” Eames’ fingertips were touching the tip of Arthur’s collar. “Oh—Jesus, sorry,” he muttered, quickly snatching his hand back, blushing furiously.

Arthur chuckled a short, quiet little laugh. He intended to say something, but he paused, drawn back to the papers in his lap. He frowned as he chased a thought. “I think I found something.” Arthur was back on his knees in a flash, riffling through the pages spread out on the table that he had been reading earlier. “I’ve heard these names before.”

“Yeah?” Eames cleared his throat and leaned closer, careful this time to keep his hands to himself as he looked over Arthur’s shoulder when Arthur sat beside his leg again.

“These four.” He showed Eames the page. “Janet Macey, the reporter, says here in her notes that the senator sponsored some research project together with a Dr. Edwards and Dr. Robertson and these doctors listed here, about ten years ago?”

Eames skimmed through it. “So the two doctors that were killed tonight were interviewed by one of the journalists that was killed Tuesday. Perfect! I’ll get in contact with those other four now.”

"No." Arthur shook his head. “Cobb killed them several years ago.”

Eames tossed up his hands. “Well, then, there’s that! Once again to the drawing board.” He rubbed his face in frustration. “Screw it. Best we can do now is visit that clinic in the morning.” He yawned and stretched, standing up and happy to put space between himself and Arthur. “We'll start fresh and figure out a plan from there, yes?"

"But that's time we need. I don't want him getting away again, Eames."

"Oh, I can't imagine what that feels like!" At Arthur's glare Eames grunted. "Come on, boy. I chased you for five years on no sleep. I'm betting we can catch him faster with a different method— _and_ ," he added just as Arthur prepared to argue, "I read the label on your medication. You amped up on that stuff without sleep is a nightmare I'd rather not set myself up for.”

Eames could see Arthur's jaw clench as Arthur stood.

“And for safety’s sake,” Eames advised, “we should keep everything locked in the study until I can send it to Yusuf to pass on to my team.” Particularly, exclusively, Ariadne. “It would look more than a bit odd for me to have this stuff in my living room in case you aren’t the only one inclined to visit me.”

When Arthur tilted his head, Eames huffed and explained, “No one goes into my study,  _ever_ , because apart from the garage, it’s the worst room in my house—or  _was_.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “You say that like having a neat house is awful.”

“I just like knowing where my things are—Don’t. Say.  _Anything_.”

“’Course not. That would be rude.”

After a moment of organizing their sorted stacks of folders up against the wall in a study that was as clean and tidy as the rest of the house, Arthur muttered, "Not as rude as crushing Walt Whitman and Tony Kushner under a mountain of outdated encyclopedias, but hey, you knew they were under there, right?" He glared when Eames’ brow shot up to the ceiling. " _Yes_ , Eames. I read books. I read all the time."

Eames had fully planned to say something smart, but all that came out was a flustered question. "How on earth do you find the time for that?"

Arthur shrugged a shoulder. "I travel a lot."

"Right." Eames couldn’t believe how envious he felt.

"Well, good night, Mr. Eames."

“No,” Eames said sternly, stopping Arthur from walking past him towards the hallway. “Couch.” 

Arthur grinned, showing his dimples. He rubbed his ear. “I'm sure you'll say it’s none of my business, but you’ve got one other bedroom in this house.”

Eames bristled. “I know that.”

Arthur's brow rose as his budding smile fell. “Oh, I see. A room for proper guests.”

“Yes.”

Arthur cut his eye at the living room, no doubt recalling how cluttered and disheveled the house had been before he’d gone through it. “Do you ever have guest, Mr. Eames?”

Eames glared, wishing he could punch the boy. Tomorrow, he would buy a pack of cigarettes, his mother be damned. “You've got either this couch, or a cell in a prison. Which one will it be?”

Arthur's eyes lowered. “Sorry. I keep getting ahead of myself.”

Eames' brow furrowed. He didn't responded, and from the way Arthur’s shoulders tensed, Eames realized that the boy was actually honestly apologizing, as if their little spat meant something to him.

He scratched his beard. So Arthur was a strange one, no surprise. Certainly nothing to meddle over when Eames was so exhausted. "Stay put." He went to the closet in the hall to gather a pillow and blankets. On the way back to the living room, he made sure his gun was locked away in his bedroom, but there was still a set of chefs knifes sitting on his kitchen counter. He shuddered, bracing himself for a long, long night.

Arthur received with the bedding with a sigh and open arms. His hands grazed Eames' stomach as he took the heavy quilt from Eames' arms.

Eames stepped back awkwardly, shoving his hands in his pockets. "If I'm not awake when the hour of your next pill comes along,  _knock on my door_. Do not come in, are we clear?" When Arthur nodded, Eames took a step back again. "If you need more blankets too, they're down the hall."

“Thank you?” Eames heard Arthur say as he hurried for his room.

Eames slowed his steps. He turned back and leaned against the door to watch Arthur move about.

It hit him strongly, deeply, of a sudden. Watching him made Eames wonder what it would have been like if his father hadn't done what he'd done. What would life be like if his sisters were alive? Emily would have maybe had kids Arthur’s age by now. Nieces and nephews that would have slept on the same couch where Arthur was unfolding the blankets. Or maybe, even, if Emily and Marge had lived, maybe Eames would have had kids of his own now too, with…a boyfriend to share this house…or a husband, even… Someone with a wry little smirk, someone who could read Eames as well as Eames read others, someone like…

“Hey.” Eames scratched his beard again, blinking away those thoughts. “Why do you trust me? I mean, I could call the police while you sleep, or… or even kill you, Arthur. What convinced you?”

“I like you, remember?" Arthur shrugged a shoulder. "I'd like to think we understand each other. I mean, everyone always has so much to prove, you know? Selfish ambitions, _massive_ egos, especially from folks who do what you do for a living, but you don’t have any of those things." He paused as he tucked the sheet corners in neatly, musing. "You’re…pure, I guess.”

“You don’t know me.”

Arthur huffed quietly, unfolding the bigger quilt on the couch. “Don’t kid yourself, Eames. My father raised me to murder people. Your father could have done the same with you. Neither us has anything to posture about. Everyone knows exactly who we are and what we’re capable of."

"I've got my ambitions, just like the rest of them."

"The only thing you want the world to remember about you is that you were nothing like me or any of those other monsters you spent decades catching.”

Eames cleared his throat, looking away as Arthur slipped out of his jeans and folded them. “Interesting way to describe yourself, Arthur.” 

Arthur took off his sweater and folded it too, placing his reading glasses on top of his small stack. He scratched his stomach under his t-shirt, showing his tattoo again. “I like monsters. They may lie to everyone else, but they’re always the most honest with themselves.”

He stretched under the quilt, looking comfortable and... Inviting. “Good night, Eames.”

+

 

Eames didn’t sleep at all that night.

He lay there, staring up at his ceiling, wondering with the part of his brain that  _wasn't_  trying not to think about sex, why he’d let a serial killer sleep on his couch.

Then, as the sky turned a lighter shade of blue, Eames found himself unable to explain why that same serial killer hadn’t barged into his room and murdered him yet.

Several times, Eames eased out of his bed and peeked into the living room, knowing for sure that Arthur would be gone, but there the man was, sleeping. He had a large part of the quilt bundled up in his arms as if he were cuddling it.

Odd. 

Eames paced his room for what seemed like hours before he sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for his alarm to go off.

He barely heard the soft knock on his door.

"Eames?"

+

 


	8. Chapter 8

+

 

Eames didn’t quite know how to make breakfast for more than one person, so he didn’t. He gave Arthur his morning pill and let the boy stumble about from the living room to the bathroom and finally to the kitchen where Arthur could feed himself if he wished.

For someone who hadn’t slept more than two hours, Eames imagined himself to look pretty good compared to Arthur. Even though he’d been out cold all night, Arthur’s hair was all over his face, his clothes wrinkled, and there were bags under his eyes. He looked angry, distracted,  _exhausted_.

“Rough night?”

Eames wasn’t all that surprised when Arthur didn’t respond. He  _was_  surprised when Arthur reached across the table and took Eames’ coffee, downing it like water.

Arthur pushed the empty cup back to Eames. His hands disappeared under the table as he laid his head on its surface and closed his eyes.

Eames’ brow furrowed but he said nothing, used to eating in silence.

After ten minutes of ignoring Arthur behind his newspaper, Eames couldn’t take it anymore. He sighed loudly. “Hungry?”

“You don’t have anything here that I want.”

Eames couldn’t help but feel a little offended. “ _Such as?”_

“Cereal? With Sugar.  _Anything_  with sugar,” he muttered from the table. He sat up at last and rubbed his face as if he'd still been sleeping.

“Hm. I’ve got fruit? I could make you a protein shake,” Eames offered, seeing Arthur perk up a bit, “with strawberries?”

“And more coffee?”

“Loads of more coffee.”

"Please."

Once Arthur finished his breakfast and another cup of coffee packed with creamer, Eames frowned again, bewildered by Arthur’s oddness.

“So, Sweet Tooth, I called Yusuf and got an address for both the hospital and the Richmond offices we need to check today. Will you be riding in the boot again?”

“Funny.” Arthur rubbed his ear, something Eames noticed he often did, but hadn’t quite figured out why. “Isn’t that a two hour drive from here?”

Eames smirked. “If there’s anything you ought to know about me, it’s that driving long-distances is something I quite enjoy.”

“Well, good for you,” Arthur muttered, reaching for the borrowed coat hung on the back of his chair. “God, I hate cars.”

“Run over as a kid, or—?”

“ _Yes_ , actually, I was. Now, let's go.” Arthur said flatly. 

“Oh.” Eames moved out of Arthur’s way quickly, ready to apologize but Arthur was already halfway to the garage.

+

 

Eames wasn’t fond of tricking people, but without his badge, he’d never get through the door of the clinic in Richmond, let alone into the private practice offices across the street.

Dr. Robertson’s grieving secretary frowned at him, her mascara blotchy as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “You’re from…where?”

“Richmond Times-Dispatch. I’m the intern reporter,” Eames explained with an Americanized accent matching hers.

“They sent an  _intern_?”

Eames blushed, putting on a charmed and embarrassed smile. “If it’s any consolation, they sent me because writing is my hobby. Being a doctor at MVC is my first gig. Dr. Robertson and I,” he cleared his throat, gaining her sympathy, “we met several years ago at a conference.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I was told that you’ve been his secretary for quite some time now, yes?”

She nodded. “Fresh out of my undergrad, he hired me personally. He said I had great potential.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“Thank you,” she blushed, smiling a little. “He gave me great hours, so I could do nursing school and work at the same time.”

“I’d love to sit down for an interview with you. You’d be wonderful for the piece, if that’s okay.”

The young woman perked up a little at the prospect. “Would you like to do me— _the interview_ , I mean—in his office?”

"That would be just perfect."

The second she had to excuse herself from the office to take a phone call, Eames snooped, letting Arthur in through the window with no clue where Arthur had acquired a janitor’s suit.

“I got what I need,” Arthur muttered after all of ten seconds.

Eames balked. “What do you mean?” He looked at the set of keys in Arthur’s hand. “I just put on one of my best performances for keys?”

“And a badge.” He pressed it to Eames’ chest, heading back for the window. “That secretary hasn’t been telling you the truth. If Robertson really used this space, and worked with her as closely as she claims, she would have been more protective of letting you in here. And look, there’s hardly anything in these drawers, unless Cobb took more stuff.”

“So what are the keys and badge for?”

“Edwards’ office. Meet me there.”

+

 

They drove up the street to his clinic. The building was much older. The office was a mess.

“This is where Robertson spent most of his time, then? With Edwards?” Eames frowned, maneuvering through old book stacks and file crates.

“It’s fitting,” Arthur observed, eyeing Eames in the stolen badge and borrowed doctor’s lab coat in this cluttered space. “Feels like home, doesn’t it?”

Eames’ ears turned bright red as he ignored the snide comment in favor of spying in Edward’s computer.

Eames searched through his email archives. “Let’s see what we have here.” He scrolled through a list of emails from Dr. Robertson.

He glanced up in time to see Arthur reading the labels on a stack of binders. “Do  _not_  touch anything, Arthur. I swear to God, boy.”

Arthur’s hands hovered, no doubt itching to rearrange and organize everything.

“These emails seem to state that whatever project they’d all been working on a decade ago is still in progress, but for some reason, it’s all hush-hush now?"

Arthur stood in the middle of the room, looking around. “This junk is making me very upset, Eames.”

“Focus.”

“I can’t.”

Eames paused to watch Arthur rub his eyes. The look on Arthur’s face wasn’t one of disgust, but suspicion as he glared at the stacks and piles surrounding them. “Hm. Just make sure the coast is clear. I don’t want a real janitor unlocking that door and surprising us. Wait—Who is this? Not Edwards’ wife.” He checked the family photo sitting on the desk before eyeing the email again.

Sure enough, the woman posed in hiking clothes beside Edwards and their family was not the same woman in the emailed photo. Edwards was kissing her cheek as she blushed. They were surrounded by a group of others, smiling outside of this very building, though it was obvious that the photo was an old one.

Arthur leaned over Eames’ shoulder, squinting at the bright screen in the dark room. He put his hand on top of Eames’ over the mouse. Arthur's fingers slipped between his to click the photo, enlarging it.

Sighing, he stood up straight and crossed his arms.

“Well? Does she look familiar? She could be the next—”

“She isn’t.”

“No?” Eames glanced back at him and cursed, pinching the bridge of the nose. “Jesus bloody fucking Christ, Arthur! Who in this photo is still alive then, huh? Who was she?”

Arthur sighed again, looking increasingly uncomfortable in the cramped space. “I don’t fucking remember, but… I think she was a doctor too. I don't think I've ever seen those other two, though. Is there a better picture with their faces in it?” 

“ _Finally_. Some kind of lead we can depend on!”

Arthur leaned over him and took over the mouse, his hand covering Eames’ once more.

The next photo was more centered on the two. Eames tried not to let his hope show too much. “Do you know them?” 

When Arthur moved away to the window without an answer, Eames frowned. “Arthur?”

Arthur stared through the blinds for long enough that Eames had to call him again.

“That woman…on the left. Look at her eyes and her smile. Does…” Arthur ran his hand through his hair. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that… she looks like me?”

She did. Even her build was small-framed. None of the photos had names listed for references. It made Eames’ need to call Yusuf for help that much more important. He glanced over at Arthur’s back as his portable drive made the necessary copies.

“Well, Arthur, I hate to say this but, if Cobb’s been having you kill all these people, who we’re finding to be more and more linked, then—”

Arthur glanced over at that, his expression terrified before he turned back to the window. He rubbed at his eyes, his voice feeble when he spoke at first. “What if he killed her?” His face took on a sinister look then, filled with a steadily rising, boiling anger inside again. "What if _I_ killed her?"

“Hey." Eames fought the urge to go to him and console him, but he was too afraid. "We don’t know that, but we’ll find out as soon as soon as we can. Right now, she may be our best and only lead. It'll do you no good at all to think what you're thinking, Arthur.” He stood, pocketing the USB. “Let’s go.” He stepped beside him at the window, trying to read Arthur's expression. "Hey. You coming?"

Arthur's hands balled into fists. “Yeah... Okay.”

+


	9. Chapter 9

+

 

Eames tried his hardest to gather information on the mystery woman from the staff and again at the nearest hospital, her face, large and grainy on his phone screen.

No luck.

Arthur sulked quietly in the passenger seat as Eames drove with not even the radio playing to fill the silence. He kept his knitted cap pulled down low, making his hair curl up in places, again looking much younger than he was.

Or Eames  _assumed_ , at least. For all Arthur's falsified documents said, the boy could be thirty, or not even legal. "Is Arthur your real name?" 

Arthur looked out the window through his dark sunglasses, playing with a folded bird he’d made out of a candy wrapper he’d found stuffed with papers in the glove compartment. “Probably not.” He sat up straighter, crossing his legs.

“No information turned up in your search?”

Arthur huffed. “Wasn’t much time to dig that deep, following Cobb and avoiding your people.”

Eames’ brow rose but he didn’t comment on that. “What do you plan to do once you find your mother— _if_  you do?”

It was clear Arthur hadn’t really thought it through that far yet. He looked even sadder now.

Arthur shrugged. “Make sure she’s okay and taken care of.”

“Oh," Eames tried to tease, "so you  _do_  have a conscience, then? Hm. Interesting.”

“Didn’t your father have one too? Granted, some people are just really good at pretending, aren't they?” He ripped the bird into pieces.

His outburst prompted more silence, only now, Eames gripped the wheel much harder.

A little ways down the road, Eames’ stomach growled. He stopped at an old ‘mom and pop’ roadside convenience store. He stretched his legs, bought coffee, and considered abandoning Arthur when he returned to the car and found it empty.

All around him, moms with small children and compact cars, and men in their bright orange hunting caps and camouflage gear loading supplies into old beat up trucks went about their day in peace and total oblivion. There were dead fields and woods beyond, little farming houses and train tracks just hidden in the line of trees. He refused to panic. And he refused to leave here without his charge.

Driving around the side of the building, Eames found Arthur with what he could only guess was the crowbar he kept in the back of the Tucson. He watched in amazement as Arthur broke the glass on both of the vending machines and brought back an armload of snacks and a water bottle he dumped into Eames’ lap once he was back in the car.

Arthur’s idea of apologizing, perhaps.

Bewildered, Eames reluctantly accepted.

After finishing off the second ‘king-sized’ glazed honeybun in the stolen pile, he glanced over at Arthur. “What's on your mind now?”

Arthur’s expression was dark as Eames drove. He sank low in the seat and stared at the mirror on his door. “That phone call that the secretary made,” he asked slowly, cutting his eye at Eames, “did she tell you what it was for?”

“No, but…”

“We’re being followed. The same white car’s been tailing us since we left Robertson’s office.”

Eames glanced up the rear-view mirror and saw two large men in the car a few vehicles behind them. “No. I highly doubt that.”

“Jut pull over at the first rest station you pass, Eames.”

“And then what? What are we going to do if you're right? I doubt they'd be up for a chat.”

Arthur continued to watch them, saying nothing more.

But by the time they reached the rest station, the white car was gone.

“Maybe it was a coincidence?” Eames shrugged, regretting the water he'd downed as he got out of the car.

The rest station looked nearly disserted, save for a single eighteen-wheeler truck parked under a tree at the other end of the long empty parking lot.

Eames stretched and yawned. “Sit tight—and don’t break the vending machines, please.”

“Mhm.”

Eames hesitated. Arthur was so withdrawn. He wasn’t sure what to do, but figured he’d handle his mood better on an empty bladder.

The little quaint, brick kiosk-like building itself was cold and neglected inside. Eames braced himself at the opened door to the men’s room, bracing a horror scene in the stalls.

They were no less dirty than he’d expected, but he was surprised to find two men loitering near the sinks when he turned around to wash his hands. The same men he'd seen in the white car.

They’d moved aside the mop bucket that had been holding the entrance door open, letting the door swing shut, closing all of them inside the dimly-lit, foul-smelling room.

A million questions ran through Eames’ head as the men stepped forward, cornering him.

“Whatever stunt you’re trying to pull,” he warned them, holding out his hands protectively, “know first that I am a federal agent.”

“That just makes it better,” the taller of the men remarked, pulling out a gun.

Eames was the only one to see Arthur creep in. As swift and as fast as his namesake, the Black Mamba snuck forward, wrapping his hand in a paper towel. Arthur crouched between one man’s legs to reach for the knife tucked into the boot of the other, just as the man took the safety off the gun.

“Wait,” Eames heard himself saying. “No, no, no, don’t do that!” But he wasn’t pleading with the men. 

It was too late. Arthur sliced the knife clean across the shorter man’s throat. He choked and slumped, clutching at the gash as his blood poured down his chest, splattering on the gritty tiles.

The man with the gun pointed at Eames was slow to react, turning to face a man he’d thought was his own size, which gave Arthur all the opportunity to slam the man's face against the sink mirror, bashing it into the glass.

The gun hit the floor. Even with the man disarmed, Arthur drove the knife hard into his gut and dragged it, spilling out the man's entrails before slitting his throat in pure overkill.

Arthur dropped the body to the floor and tossed the knife into the sink. He let the water run over his blood-spotted, makeshift glove. The thin paper disintegrated, right down the drain.

“Come this way,” he told Eames, holding out his hand for Eames to take. “Outside of the blood. Don’t get it on your shoes.”

Eames wouldn’t touch him. He hopped over the growing pool on the floor and stormed past Arthur, his heart pounding out of his chest, his stomach pained, his hands shaking.

He drove them as far away and as fast as he could, for as long as he could hold in his shock. He pulled over at another rest station and quickly left the car to pace outside. He smoked his first cigarette in years.

Arthur joined him. “I don’t get why you’re so worked up. I warned you from the beginning that pursuing this would be dangerous—”

“No!” Eames jabbed his finger at Arthur’s chest. “No. Arthur, we do not bloody kill suspects! What is the fucking matter with you?”

Arthur stepped back, bristling. “I saved your life. You’re welcome.”

Eames fought the urge to rip out his hair as he paced again.

He rubbed at his growing headache before looking back at Arthur. “I don’t understand! What is it with you? You… do you…feel  _anything_  when you savagely murder other human beings? Huh? Do you ever regret taking life? Ever? Or is this all a bloody game to you?”

Arthur’s glare was ice cold as if he were imagining Eames' blood on his hands before he blinked and looked away. He snorted, heading back for the car. “He pointed a gun at you."

"You've done the same! Are you going to gut yourself too?"

"Fine. The next time you get cornered and a man points a gun at your head, don’t fight back, just talk to him instead. Yeah, reason with him not to kill you. I’d hate to see what happens to you then, Eames, but be my guest.”

Eames shook his head, following him. “You’re bloody vicious. Fucking devil.”

Arthur stopped short. Eames nearly ran into him.

It was enough for Arthur to snap, but not in the way Eames thought he would. Eames cringed as his back hit the car.

Arthur caged him in, his body pressed close. His voice was low. “Now who’s getting ahead of himself, huh, Eames? You forget that I killed and  _hunted_  long before you met me. I don’t need you, Eames, but you sure as hell need me.  _You_  would be the one dead and gone in that shithole right now while those two would be on their way to do whoever’s bidding all over again—that is,  _if_  you’d have even managed to get that far without my help.”

Eames swallowed as he felt Arthur rest his weight of his hips against him, those killing hands relaxing on Eames’ arms.

Arthur was half-hard in his tight black jeans. Eames’ cock twitched, as if he could feel Arthur's pulsing against him. The small, nagging thought that Arthur might also feel him through the clothes separating them was utterly terrifying.

Arthur's expression softening into a smirk. “So," he said with a soft, sweet tone that sent tingles down Eames' spine, "the next time I save your ass, just say thank you. That’s all.” His eyes drifted to Eames’ lips before he backed up, giving Eames room to step away and catch his breath.

By the time Eames had walked slowly around the car and got in, he was still breathless. He gripped the steering wheel for a moment, before remembering to put the key in the ignition.

+ 

 

In the evening, back at Eames’ house, he very pointedly, very determinedly ignored Arthur.

Tried to, at least.

Arthur moved about the living room and kitchen after his shower, with wet hair and the t-shirt from the jail, and loose pants borrowed from Eames while his clothes were in the washing machine.

Even with the drawstring tied tightly, those pants still hung dangerously low on Arthur’s hips.

Eames regretted harboring a serial killing fugitive, yes, but his second biggest blunder was not offering Arthur boxers along with those pants.

Every time Arthur stood and walked, the bulge of his soft cock beneath the thin cotton taunted Eames. His lower back dimples, the tattoos, the dusting of hair under his navel… By the time they muttered their awkward goodnights, Eames had to keep the folder he’d been trying to read pressed over his groin as he made his hurried retreat to his room.

His cold shower didn’t help, but he refused to lose control.

However, Eames found no refuge in sleep...

When the quilt was pulled back and Arthur untangled from the sheets on the couch, the head of his cock peeked from under the band of his pants. His nipples hardened under his t-shirt as Eames thumbed his bottom lip. Arthur's sharp eyes watched Eames' hand move lower and lower, tickling over his navel and the soft trail of hair underneath.

Something slithered up the back of Eames' calf.

A black mamba as bewitched by Arthur as Eames was, slid up the couch to nestle its face under Arthur's hand.

Entranced by the contrast of silver scale over pale flesh, Eames' rough fingertips circled Arthur's smooth glans, spreading a little bead of precome as it leaked from the slit. His ears rung with Arthur's quiet moans and the snake's warning hiss. His heart thudded in his chest as Arthur's back began to arch, the snake coiling around his waist.

Arthur begged for more of Eames' touch.

Eames tugged on the drawstring of Arthur's pants. The knot gave way without issue. The snake moved along Arthur's chest, its black eyes matching Arthur's in the darkness as they focused on Eames. 

Those pants slid down further and further until Arthur could open his long, lean legs for Eames to slip between them. He felt almost too big for the couch as he covered Arthur, pushing up his shirt to see more of his skin in the moonlight when Arthur brushed the snake aside for him.

"Eames..." Arthur’s chest rose and fell faster and faster as he panted, his thighs tickling up Eames’ ribs.

Arthur moaned low in his throat when Eames held his wrists over his head. He struggled, slow and languid, deceptively weak under Eames’ strength.

Without warning, the snake bit Eames in the chest, quick and as powerful as lightning. He was struck over and over as Arthur laughed, his mouth as ink black as the snake's. Eames choked, reaching a hand up to feel spots of blood blooming on his shirt.

Arthur bucked and rolled them, pinning Eames down until he ceased his scared struggle. 

Feeling Arthur’s lips brush his jaw, Eames closed his eyes, his fingers tracing the snakes’ coil on his hip and thigh as the venom told hold, thick and burning in his blood. Arthur kissed the snake's head before letting it slither to the floor to disappear into the shadows of the room.

Fevered, Eames shivered when Arthur caressed his face with his lips and nose.

Arthur's soft, whispered words seem to echo off the ceiling, through his ears, down his dry throat.

_“You can’t tame me, Eames…”_

He grinned against the pulse in Arthur's throat, drugged. “Darling, I don’t want to.”

Eames woke with a start, sweating and breathless in his bed. 

Achingly hard. And alone.

A few tugs under the sheets and he was coming over his hand harder than he’d ever had before.

+

 

++


	10. Chapter 10

**Part Two**

*****

 

It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall,  
The dark threw its   
patches down upon me also

 _― Walt Whitman_  

++

+

 

Eames woke up the morning after the dream feeling…awake for once and surprisingly…refreshed, even though he'd spent most of the night fighting off sleep for fear of dreaming again.

Arthur was still asleep in the living room. The quilt had been kicked to the floor with most of the blanket.

For a moment, he looked to be waking up as well, moaning low and turning more towards the couch back. He wrapped his arms around himself tighter, his brow furrowed, a frown deep set.

A high-pitched, soft whimper cut through the quiet air and raced straight to Eames’ cock, but the longer he watched Arthur, the more he realized that Arthur wasn’t caught in the grips of a sex dream.

Arthur pushed softly against the couch. He groaned, unhappy.

“Arthur?” Eames edged forward and carefully shook his shoulder, ready to bolt if Arthur snapped.

“No,” he muttered.

“Wake up, Arthur.”

“Cutter, stop… Stop shouting. No, I don't want this.”

“Come on, boy.” Eames shook him again. He startled back a step as Arthur sat up abruptly.

Arthur looked up at Eames through his wild hair. His eyes narrowed.

“Arthur?”

He huffed when Arthur's eyes rolled and he collapsed back, promptly falling back asleep. When he lifted Arthur’s wrist and dropped it, Arthur made no response. Eames eyed the pill in his hand suspiciously.

“Alright, well, I’ll be at the store to pick up a few things, then? Hm.” Eames fixed the blanket but kept the quilt rolled down.

He placed Arthur's pill and a glass of water on the coffee table before he left.

+

 

Arthur looked haggard sitting on the couch with the empty cup in his hand when Eames returned. His expression had only the faintest change from anxious to relieved when he saw the paper bag of groceries in Eames' arm.

Still, he kept his eyes lowered and moved little. Quiet and careful around Eames. 

“Arthur?” Eames called him into the kitchen as he plated his scrambled eggs and toasted bread.

Arthur hovered in the kitchen doorway. “Yes?”

Eames sat down and pointed his chin at his peace offering of Reese’s Puffs cereal on the counter. 

Arthur’s lips parted. His shoulders relaxed. "You bought me cereal?"

"I did."

”I like these.”

“Good.” Eames was buttering his toast when he asked, “Who’s Cutter?”

Arthur froze in front of the counter. He voice was tight. “What?”

“You don’t remember this morning?”

Arthur turned visibly pale, his expression openly terrified. “No. What did I do this morning?”

“You… just… had a bad dream, that’s all? I woke you up—or I thought I did.” Eames frowned as Arthur released the breath he’d been holding. “What exactly did you  _think_  you’d done this morning, Arthur?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He touched the brightly colored cereal box and searched for a bowl, his back turned. “Sorry about yesterday. I won’t kill anybody else unless you want me to.”

Eames gaped at his back, ready to argue that Arthur was an adult and should be fully capable of making the decision to not kill on his own. But he said nothing. He just nodded curtly at Arthur when he glanced at Eames before pouring his cereal.

Eames sat back in his chair, feeling sick. Arthur’s whole world was warped by the murderous man who’d raised him. Even with his precarious mental state, Arthur had still been led to  _this_  point, instead of being raised protected and cared for.

Arthur wolfed down his breakfast. He stood and stretched, his shirt riding up his stomach.

Through the fog, Eames heard Arthur ask on his way to the living room, “Something on your mind?”

Eames cleared his throat. “May I ask you something personal, Arthur?”

It took him a while to respond, guarded. “Okay.”

“Cobb’s wife? You said she’s been your therapist for how long?”

“Since I was six.”

Eames frowned as he jotted a more thorough grocery list on his napkin. “What does a six-year-old need with a therapist?”

Arthur shrugged, unfolding his clothes on the coffee table.

Eames surveyed his list, eyeing the kitchen in an attempt to remember what else he’d need by the weekend. “And did you complete any school?”

“Of course,” he heard Arthur scoff. “Some public, mostly home schooling. I’m currently failing my senior year in an online undergrad college. Thanks, by the way, for arresting me a month before my finals. Why do you ask?”

“I…” Eames glanced at him and forgot his words. His pin fell out of his hand and rolled on the table.

Arthur was naked again, folding the pants he’d slept in.

He looked even better than he had that first night or in the dream.  _Real_ , and healthy, perfect in the sunlight coming in through the thin, white curtains as he slipped into his underwear and jeans.

“Hm?” Arthur quirked his eyebrow at Eames’ silence.

Eames blinked. “I was just…curious.”

Arthur combed his curling hair back with his fingers and smirked. “Found what you were looking for?”

Eames blinked again. “What?”

Arthur’s smirk turned into a teasing, lewd smile. He paused with his t-shirt in his hands. His voice was husky when he spoke. “Want me to offer you 'repayment' for breakfast?” 

"Huh?" Eames frowned, fully out of his daydream now. "Why? And with what money?”

Arthur sighed out a private laugh, his smile fond. “And to think, that line usually works in porn. Oh well. Okay, Mr. Eames.” He shook his head as if Eames had said something ridiculous.

What it could possibly be, Eames had no idea until he caught on to Arthur's innuendo. He blushed furiously, scowling.

+

 

Arthur slouched in the middle of the couch with his legs folded under him. He doodled in one of Eames’ little empty moleskins, watching Eames pace.

“So we have no idea who sent those men to follow us.”

Arthur snorted. “And one apology is all you’re getting for that. Yes, I killed them.” He sat forward. “But, look, I know they weren't sent by Cobb. It's not his style. So, what else did we learn yesterday?”

Eames' brow furrowed as he voiced his thoughts. "A series of doctors, politicians, reporters and the like...all dead, all possibly connected to some key thing, but what? What was it that some hid while others tried to expose, for which, in the end, they all ended up with the same fate." Eames massaged his temples. "What is your endgame, Mr. Cobb? Who are you working for?"

"It must be someone, or even some company, dealing with the medical field. Maybe organ harvesting and black market trafficking gone wrong?" Arthur shrugged. "It's possible, right?"

“Perhaps. We’re definitely on the right track, that’s for sure." He waved at the folders. “All those people on those lists, they could all be connected just like this group is. We’ve just scraped the surface. Whatever those doctors were doing, peeking into it yesterday was enough to make us  _killable_. Interestingly enough,  _you_  gained the same killable status from Cobb, or something close to it, considering that he sold you out as soon as you tried to find the truth about your mother.” He slowed his pacing, rising his brow at Arthur.

Arthur glanced at all the files and notebooks scattered on the couch, coffee table and floor. He rubbed the back of his neck and his ear. “She’s involved somehow?”

“Could be. We need to dig deeper. Yesterday was a close call. Someone might still be trying to sniff us out, so this is where we'll direct our focus for a bit.” When Arthur’s eyes narrowed in question, Eames explained, “The photo of that mystery woman may be key, but Arthur, to find out who she is, we may have to find out who  _you_  are—or rather were—first.”

“Whatever you have in mind, I’m sure I’ve already tried it and failed. I looked into all the possible adoption records, but there aren’t any. I even went through all the photos in Mallorie’s albums… No luck.”

“No social security number? Don’t schools require that information?”

Arthur looked down sheepishly, rubbing his ear again. “My mom…  _Mallorie_  handled all of my paperwork to get into school, but I did raid the house where we were living then, looking for one.” He shook his head.

“This is actually great, Arthur. If they kidnapped you, you’ll be in a database for missing children—”

“Do we have time to search that? Eames, I don’t even know if my real name was Arthur. For all I know, my mom might not even be in this country.”

“Oh." Eames waved his hand. "Never mind that then. I've got a—Why do you do that?”

Arthur had been staring at his empty hands before he'd started rubbing his ear again. When Eames pointed to his own ear in question, Arthur glared and blushed. “I need a break.”

“But we haven’t even started. Arthur?” He watched him get up and walk down the hall towards his bedroom. Eames quickly followed, his mind at once on the gun and pills locked away inside. “Arthur? Stop.”

Arthur passed the room and walked the length of the hallway and turned around, circling the kitchen and repeating the lap around the living room and hall until Eames stood in his way.

Eames frowned as Arthur balled up his fist. “Arthur, you know, I have a masters in psychology if you want to talk—”

“I don’t need anybody else to talk to!" Arthur snapped. "I just want something in my life to be real, but even  _I’m_  not a real fucking person!”

Eames stepped back, amazed by how quickly and severely Arthur’s anger boiled over.

Arthur heaved as if he were suffocating. He covered his ears and turned his back. “They took who I was and buried him so fucking far underground that I can’t… I just want to explode, Eames. I want them to die. I want them to die for this.”

Eames tried to reach for Arthur’s trembling hands before they could possibly end up in one of his walls. “Hey?”

“Don’t fucking touch me!”

“Okay, okay. I just want to help.” He stepped back against the wall to give Arthur space. “Go finish your walk.”

“Thank you.” Arthur breathed easier, but his shoulders were still tense and his hands were still shaking.

Eames watched him pace for a long time, pushing down the fear he tried to keep buried. Still, he held his breath every time Arthur's pacing brought him in Eames' direction. 

The walk didn’t seem to work. If anything, the more Arthur was allowed to stew in his thoughts the angrier he became. To consider that Arthur's medication wasn't strong enough to calm him and to consider that that same medication was running out, it made Eames dizzy. Never had he felt this afraid of time in his life. 

Eames couldn't take waiting any longer. It was eating him alive. He needed to act, to regain control. He took a deep breath and prayed he wouldn’t get his head bashed in when he reached for Arthur again.

Arthur startled and immediately tried to catch Eames in a headlock.

"Arthur!" Eames struggled, taken by Arthur's speed. He didn't need to bigger than Eames or stronger. He was quick. Every which way Eames push and pulled him, Arthur got those skinny arms around his neck every time.

They wrestled back and forth against the wall until they were tangled. 

“Let go of me! I swear, I'll put you in the fucking ground,” Arthur gritted out, just as surprised as Eames was when Eames realized that he'd gained the upper hand. 

Eames panted, able to take a breather with Arthur trapped. But he knew his arm would snap if he tried to break free of his own hold, but breaking free wasn’t his plan now. “Shut up and lay your head of my shoulder, damn it! Do it!”

"What?" Arthur’s confusion gave Eames the out he needed to grab a hold of Arthur’s hair and force his head to his shoulder. Arthur struggled more now, trying to push himself away from the wall, but he couldn't. The growl he voice, nearly stopped Eames' heart. 

Arthur stilled at last, as Eames gripped the back on his neck and patted his back.

A tense silence fell as Arthur froze rigid. "Are you fucking hugging me, Eames?"

"Yes. Take it." Eames waited, unrelenting.

Arthur breath was ragged, unsteady as he tried to speak, no doubt trying to process this in the midst of all the anger flooding his brain. All at once Arthur fell apart as if he strength had vanished. He moaned painfully and collapsed, his weight pulling Eames down with him.

“Whoa, whoa, okay.” Eames landed on his knees with a grimace, expecting Arthur to push him off and kill him. He never expected Arthur’s hands to slip under his shirt and circle his back, or for him to burrow his face in his neck and breathe him in. “Wh-Arthur?”

“You’re so warm and…soft," Arthur muttered. " _Safe_.”

Eames swallowed, dumbfounded, his eyes wide when he heard Arthur's whispered, "I want this," puff against his jaw. “Um! Well, Arthur… do you… Do you feel better?”

Arthur nodded into his neck, moaning again, his breath tickling. “You remind me of someone that I once… All the best parts of him with... none of the bad— _Jesus fucking Christ_.” Arthur moved away abruptly. "Sorry. I hate losing control,” he bit out, avoiding Eames' curious stare. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I don't even remember going out."

"Out?" Eames scrambled up to follow him back to the living room. “Jesus, Arthur, you've been 'out' for ten or fifteen bloody minutes! How often does that happen? Isn't your medication supposed to help with—”

Arthur spun to glare at him, looking murderous. “ _Eames, shut up_.”

Eames stared. “Excuse me? You’re here. In _my_ house!” Eames crossed his arms, further confused and bristling now. “I have the right to ask these things.”

Arthur’s hands balled into fist again and his jaw clenched but just as quickly, it passed over him as if Eames could physically see Arthur shove his anger back into its compartment and secure the locks. His sigh was tight, breathless in his effort. “I’m not going to argue with you like this. It can get…messy and time-consuming.”

Eames blinked, disbelieving. “I just cuddled you out of an out-of-body temper tantrum and  _now_  you’re _threatening_ me? See, Arthur, this is why I ask the questions that I do—Questions that you always  _avoid_ , but ones that are extremely important to me, because there are people on lists that you kill, yes, but there are a great lot of them that aren’t on any lists and how  _they_  die is messy and time-consuming and vital to my own personal safety with you. Tell me. What have we been tiptoeing around? How bloody unstable are you?”

Arthur rubbed his ear, suddenly worn out and tired. He glanced up at Eames from under his hand as he rubbed his forehead, grimacing as if in pain. “I really like you.”

Eames blushed. “Wonderful. But?”

Arthur rubbed his forehead harder before shoving his hands in his pockets. He snapped. “I make mistakes when I get a little unstable, okay, Mr. Masters In Psychology? Is that good enough for you?”

“ _A_ _little_ unstable?” Eames snorted in disbelief. “Darling, let me fucking tell you—”

“The medication doesn’t help with that. Not-not really," he muttered, averting his eyes. "Mallorie says I'm an odd case. I've always been," he sighed, looking embarrassed, "standing on a very small, very high up ledge, while most people who grow up like me just trip over cracks and uneven pavement a lot, so to speak. I’m still…teetering on the ledge, but the wind doesn’t blow as hard when I have my medication. My footing's more secure. There's still a good chance that I'll... get caught in the wind and fall... but the odds aren't quite so high, you know? That's all I care to say about it now.”

Eames sighed, frowning. “Okay. Fine. Which makes my previous question all the more relevant. You’ve got less than a week’s worth of pills left. If we don’t find Cobb before then, well… We have to be honest here, Arthur,  _when_ , not if, you get blown off of that ledge, where are you going to land? On top of me? Will I be crushed?”

Arthur rolled his shoulders and neck, his posture defensive as he pointedly looked past Eames. He rubbed his thumb and index finger together, itching to touch his ear again, it was clear. “Like I said, I really like you.”

“And so… your answer is?”

“I hope not,” Arthur said simply, his voice quiet. “Shoot me first,” his eyes meet Eames’, “if I get worse than this. Okay?”

Eames' feet brought him closer until they were within arm’s reach.

Arthur licked his lips, his skin flushed and his nipples hard under his t-shirt as he watched Eames reach his hand out to touch his face.

They both looked away.

Eames scratched his beard as he walked past Arthur to the couch.

“Thank you,” Arthur said to him over his shoulder. “Your methods are… unconventional and… _abrasive_ , but… I don’t feel like my chest is going to cave in anymore, so... Thank you.”

Eames grimaced. “What are your normal calming techniques?”

Hearing Arthur snort made Eames regret ever asking.

+

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

+

 

“You understand, Arthur,” Eames said to him as he dialed Yusuf’s number, “he can’t know that you’re here.”

“Lips sealed.” Arthur sat beside him and crossed his legs, waiting.

A cat purred close to the phone when Yusuf answered. “Sir?”

“Yusuf.” Eames put the phone on speaker to set it on the coffee table, freeing up his hands to use his laptop. “Are you busy now?”

“Depends… Any more questions on that non-case you’re definitely absolutely not working on and not calling me to ask about?”

Eames chuckled, hearing the excitement in Yusuf’s voice already blossoming. “I want to send you a few things I may have stumbled upon.”

“Accidentally, of course.”

“I was fishing.” Eames caught Arthur’s smirk in the corner of his eye.

“Right, right. No, I’m actually stuck at home today. Since the killings have stopped, the team hasn’t found any new leads—a problem that could change, provided you helped them more, sir. Although, if I may say, Adeyemi did like this opportunity to do your job with your team without you here, up until he ran out of ideas and stopped listening to Ariadne—so he did some yelling and throwing things, so we’ve all been sent home to nap, but you know I’m not a napper. Or you didn’t know that, considering we don’t ever really…” Yusuf’s typing fingers paused. “May I look into your computer, sir, or is that weird? Are you emailing me things?”

“I was going to.”

“Oh.” The typing resumed beneath that guilty word. “Sorry. I’m so used to Bureau hacking I forgot to ask! I’ll wait.”

“Do it, if it’s easier.”

“Definitely easier. It’ll just take a second. What am I looking at?”

“Folders labeled under Arthur Harris.” Eames frowned, in silent disagreement with the ghost hand clicking out of his opened email and peeking through the folders.

“Speaking of Arthur Harris," Yusuf said over more cat purring, "I kept digging after that situation in Alaska peaked my curiosity.”

Eames glanced over at Arthur who was staring at the phone, his brow quirked in question as Yusuf continued to speak.

“And I found even  _more_  creepy shit—”

“Yusuf—”

“Turns out that when the Harris family left Alaska, they lied low in a cabin community at the bottom of Mount Rainier for two years.”

Eames’ eyes dropped to Arthur’s chest and the little mountain tattoo hidden under his clothes. “Yusuf—”

“ _Until_ , that is, the body of Cutter Gibson, some big, strapping, lumberjack fellow, was found brutally murdered in one of the cabins. This guy hunted game for tourists and the lodge on the mountain and even wrestled a bloody bear once, so nobody could figure out who or what could have killed him. And, by the time he was found, Harris’ family – or Cobb's, I guess? – had picked up and moved elsewhere. Granted, the guy was forty-something and Harris was thirteen at the time, though? So his death was probably Dominic Cobb’s doing instead of Arthur’s… Hm… Never mind, anyways—”

Arthur was staring pointedly at Eames. He huffed. “You did a background check on me? Of course you did. Smart man.”

The typing stopped. “Sir, who is that?”

“ _Nobody_ , Yusuf, just get in the folder.”

Arthur laughed. “So my resume was decent enough for you to trust me?”

Yusuf sputtered. “Sir… Is…that… What… What is happening?”

Eames rubbed his face, glaring at Arthur. He shook his head. “Listen to me, Yusuf, this is an order. You are not, under any circumstances—”

“Oh my God, Eames,” Yusuf whispered as if Arthur couldn’t hear him. “How long has he been there? How long have you been his hostage?”

“I’m not a hostage.”

“No? I don’t imagine he just stopped by for brunch, Eames.”

“I’m not a hostage, Yusuf,” Eames stressed over Arthur’s chuckling. “ _You’re going to get us arrested, Arthur, do you understand_?”

Arthur smiled. “What? He seems nice and he likes you. If he calls the police on me, I’ll just escape again and kill him so you and I can continue here.”

Yusuf gasped. “You…  _Eames_ ," he stressed, more offended than afraid, it seemed, "don’t let him kill me.”

“He’s not going to kill you, Yusuf, because you’re not going to say a word of this to anyone.”

There was silence on Yusuf’s end for a moment. “Well… sir, I’m lost. This is extremely irregular. And…illegal."

“Yusuf, everything you’ve done for me so far has been irregular and illegal.”

“Could I meet him, then?”

It was Eames’ turn to sputter. “What? Absolutely not!”

“But I never get to be in the action! I'm always typing. He said I seemed nice.”

“You do.” Arthur nodded.

“I am, yes! I won't say a word.”

Arthur smiled at the phone. “This whole thing excites you, doesn't it?”

“It does! You’re like… the Ted Bundy of our generation. Worst! You're the scariest person on earth and you aren’t currently killing anyone! This is very exciting! It's not a trap, right? You're not going to just kill Eames and me once I get there, are you? Eames, are you honestly not a hostage?”

"Arthur, please stop helping," Eames groaned.

"No," Arthur grinned. "I like Eames. I like you too."

Yusuf's voice was hushed. "Really?"

"No, but we'll see."

"Oh my God, that sounds terrifying! I'm on my way!"  

 

Yusuf stood in the doorway of Eames’ house, looking around. He nodded. “Definitely not at all what I expected.”

Eames looked at his living room, bristling. “What?”

“Adeyemi said this place was a total bloody… um…” Yusuf laughed nervously. “It’s nice!” He stood closer, whispering. “I could call the police from my car if you need rescue, Eames, I'm serious.” He startled at the clink of ceramic from the kitchen and peeked around Eames. “Whoa.”

Arthur sat down on the arm of the couch, studying Yusuf as he ate another spoonful of ice cream.

Eames frowned at the bowl, still irritated. “That wasn’t for you.”

Arthur’s brow shot up. “I can put it back in the carton if you want me to,” he said flatly, turning his attention back to Yusuf. “Hello."

"Hey… Mr… Mr. Harris. Or Mr. Cobb?."

"Yusuf, right?"

"Yes."

"Call me Arthur. What kind of phone do you use?”

In a bundle of nervous energy, Yusuf quickly took it out of his coat pocket. “It’s the latest model. _So_ much better than the last one.”

“May I see it?” Arthur held out his hand.

“Sure! Sure, okay.” Yusuf was shaking as inched closer, his arm extending as far as he could reach to put it in Arthur’s palm. He hurried to stand closer to Eames again.

Arthur looked it over. “And this is the only phone you have, right?”

Yusuf tilted his head. “Why would I… _Oh_.” His face fell as Arthur looked for his fingerprints smudged on the glass screen and unlocked the phone, going straight to his call history.

Arthur tossed it back to him, smiling. “So your colleague gets to live after all, Mr. Eames. Good.”

Yusuf sputtered. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming.

Yusuf sat down in the middle of the couch, his shoulders hunched and his opened laptop clutched in his hands when Arthur moved to sit on the adjacent coach, staring at Yusuf, smirking as Eames filled Yusuf in on Arthur's escapes.

At once Eames missed the quiet empty space that once existed in his house as soon as he joined them. He sighed. “Arthur, be nice and stop teasing him for God’s sake.” He pointed to the files on Yusuf’s laptop.“This here. Yesterday, we acquired several documents and photos that I need you to look into. Our search might have gotten us into a bit of trouble, so I need you to figure out why that is.”

“So,” Yusuf frowned, daring to glance at Arthur. He lowered his voice, “he’s working  _with_  you.”

“Yes.”

“To catch…himself?”

“To repay Eames a favor,” Arthur said, “in the event that he makes good on what he’s offered me.”

“Which is reason number two of why I called you,” Eames explained. “We’ve already discussed who Arthur’s parents  _aren’t_ , but he wants to know who they really are.”

“My mother,” Arthur corrected him.

“No father?” Yusuf asked.

“No.” At Eames’ quirked brow, Arthur sighed. “Sometimes, I see a faceless woman…in my dreams and,” he waved his hand at the room, “various other places, but never a faceless man.”

“You think the woman you see is your mother?”

“Must be. It stems from my oldest memory.”

Yusuf whistled. “This all is a bloody lot to sift through, as is, but add in that angle and you could be at it for a while. You’re not expecting anything today, correct?” He looked to Eames.

“Just this one thing for now.” Eames pointed to the photo of the unknown woman. “We would like to know who she is.”

Yusuf frowned. “Sorry to say, but there’s not much I can do from home, but once I get back to the office, I can see what I can do. In the meantime, however, we can see what a simple image search might bring us?“

He dragged the photograph into the search box. No results.

Eames scratched his chin. “This is a cropped photo. Would having the original work better for now?”

“Technically, no. You see—Oh my God.” Yusuf hunched again, falling silent with Arthur now leaning over the back of the couch, his chin propped on his amrs between their shoulders. “Arthur, how did you even—I didn’t even hear you get up. You’re more bloody stealth than my cat!”

“You smell good. You both do.”

Eames sighed as Yusuf blushed.

"Oh! Thank you." Yusuf swallowed. “You know, Eames,” he said, when Eames got up to bring tea from the kitchen, “this is actually not fun at all.”

Arthur smiled softly. He sat beside Yusuf, facing him on the couch, and folded his legs under him. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m sorry.”

Eames huffed, coming back. “No you’re not.”

“No.” Arthur glanced sheepishly at Eames. “But it’s still polite to say.”

Eames paused. He didn’t comment, shocked into silence now that he knew what Arthur was doing to Yusuf. Arthur was cataloguing Yusuf, labeling him as a possession or as competition. It was clear now. Eames could see it in the tightness around Arthur's eyes and jaw, how he continued to sit in complete disregard of Yusuf’s space. Intimidating and searching for weak spots Yusuf didn't even know he needed to safe guard. Not once did Arthur touch his ear, his normal ticks hidden somewhere as he watched Yusuf type, as he made sure that Yusuf knew he was being watched, examined. Yusuf was a threat to him, a new variable in Arthur's carefully assembled and controlled environment.

And at its center was Eames himself. The possession. 

The thought didn’t upset Eames nearly as much as he knew it should have. He reached past Arthur to offer the mug of tea to Yusuf and watched Arthur’s eyes narrow the tiniest bit more, his jaw minutely clench, overflowing with jealousy.

Eames ignored him. “Are there any more options?”

“Short of hacking into the system? No. Last time I hacked into the FBI's system… I was given this job and a salary. If I try to hack it again now, I’m guessing I won’t get a raise as punishment. So, yes. No luck. Not yet. Maybe some of these people in the picture with her might help? Especially this backdrop. It's worth a try." He searched, drinking from his mug. "See? Here's the camp where they took the pictures and here's the summit. You can backtrack the park's event lists, or ones in the neighboring area. They were there on company retreat perhaps. Do you have access to Robertson or Edwards' calendars or possible day planner?” He paused as a thought struck him. He glanced at Arthur. “Are you offended by the term psychopath?”

Arthur blinked, caught off guard. “Should I be?”

Yusuf laughed nervously. “Well, funny you should ask. I actually like my life, so I’m not going to answer that. But do you feel fear?”

“I guess so.”

“What are you afraid of? I’m terrified of birds, heights,  _you_ , and sometimes I get a bit nervous driving over bridges, because what if a tire blows or I get knocked off by a giant truck? I can’t swim. I don’t even know how to escape a car if it ends up underwater.”

"Take a breath first if you feel panicked. Keep the car on, lower your window, crawl out before the car sinks and try to float until someone swims you out of the water. _Or_ , if the car's underwater and loses power while you're still in it, smash the window and let the water in to relieve the pressure before you try to escape. Let the directions of the bubbles help you orient yourself to the surface. _Learn how to swim first_ , Yusuf." Arthur paused to think for a moment. “I don’t like spiders.”

“No way!” Yusuf grinned. “That can't be true. Arthur, you  _murder_  people  _a lot_. Some of them were on the sex offender registry for doing terrible, violent things and some of the others were suspected of killing other people themselves!  _That_  doesn’t scare you, but spiders do? Really?”

Arthur shrugged. “I’ve lived in more than a few places where the spiders are more plentiful and dangerous for you than neighbors. I don’t like spiders. I don’t like dogs either. Not at all.”

“What about cats? They’re like the villain pet of choice.”

Arthur smiled slowly. “You have a cat, yeah?”

Yusuf nodded. He smiled fondly, surprising Eames to see him so at ease. “Her name is Amber, because of her eyes.”

“Lovely.” Arthur caught Eames’ staring. His smile turned into a smirk.

Yusuf startled when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He showed Eames the number anxiously before carefully answering it. “Sir? Where am I? I’m…” He glanced from Eames to Arthur and sank lower in the couch. “I’m…visiting…my… grandmother—Yes, my nan lives in Johannesburg. I meant her friend. Her very old, American friend…for…a favor! She—my grandmother—wanted me to visit…with Mrs.,” he looked around the room quickly, “Mrs. Cottage, because she’s recently had surgery, and—Yes, I’m on my way. I’m saying goodbye to Mrs. Cottage right now, sir—He hung up on me!” He frowned at the phone until the screen light faded. “When will you come back to us, Eames?”

“Not soon enough, I supposed,” Eames sighed.

Yusuf awkwardly stepped over Eames’ feet to get around the coffee table with his laptop and bag, rather than pass Arthur. “Adeyemi might be all smiles and personality, but at least you respect all of us enough to say goodbye properly before you hang up on us. Even Nash!” He paused and glanced at Arthur. He swallowed, stuffing his bag faster.

Eames followed him to the door. “Does Adeyemi suspect anything?”

“After that terrible train wreck of a lie, he might look at me a little sideways for a while. Ariadne does ask about you and these leads. I’ve honestly been tempted to tell her what we’re doing. She could be a great help, but…best not to incriminate her… just in case.”

Eames nodded. “Smart boy. I’ll call you soon.”

“Right.” He glanced at Arthur, who was standing behind Eames. “It was…”

“My pleasure.” Arthur smiled. “I’m happy Eames has someone to trust.” His eyes followed Yusuf’s hurried exist to his car and watched him drive away until he couldn’t see the car any more.

“Better than nothing, I suppose,” he muttered, collecting the tea mug. He frowned at the ring the cup left behind, looking deeply offended by it. He crossed his arms. “This table is ruined, Eames.”

Eames frowned at the ring as well and remembered why he wasn’t a man for guests. “He took a lot more away from this ‘Meet a Serial Killer’ rendezvous than we did.”

Arthur chuckled. “When you watch animal documentaries and see a jaguar with a kill in its mouth, don’t you still want to know what it feels like to pet one? They're apex predators of the Amazon and yet all you see is soft, silky fur on a big cat. Yusuf wouldn’t be my first fan.” He squinted at Eames, teasing him with his grin. "Or my last one."

Eames didn’t see it. “How are you feeling, at any rate?”

“Indescribably frustrated." He pointed his chin towards the windows’ thin curtains. “Who’s that parking in front of your house?”

Eames paled. “My boss. What the hell is he doing here?”

“Eames? You didn’t…”

Eames' heart raced, hearing the hesitance in Arthur’s hushed voice. “You should consider making yourself scarce.”

But Arthur didn’t move from where he stood, looking from Eames to the front door, an unreadable expression on his face. Eames had not time to ask him to leave again. He hurried outside, quick to close the door behind him, praying that the director wouldn't ask to come inside.

“Eames! You’re looking rested.” Adeyemi, grinned, squinting at him from behind his sunglasses when Eames stepped out on the porch.

“I am. You’re awfully lost,” Eames teased nervously.

“ _Well_ ,” Adeyemi drawled, shrugging. “Figured I’d stop by. See what you’ve been up to.”

Eames leaned on the railing and grunted. “Didn’t take long for you to start missing me. Unfortunately.”

“Would have come sooner, but I’ve been busy, as I’m sure you understand. Or used to, at least.” He glanced around the neighborhood with more familiarity than Eames liked.

"So, mate," Adeyemi asked after coming closer, leaning on the railing at the bottom of the steps, "what  _have_ you been up to?"

+

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **READ THIS NOTE FIRST:** The beginning of this chapter deals with inexplicit, but extreme age difference/underage subject matter from Arthur's past, and a brief reference to hunting and animal killing. For folks who aren't comfortable with reading either, you can skip down to the three rows of plus/stars symbols, roughly two-thirds of the way down the chapter.

+

 

 **Washington, 3 miles southwest of Mt. Rainier** _**—** _ _**Nine years ago** _

 

Arthur’s new coat was too big. All of his clothes were.

“Arthur?” Martin patted his shoulder, getting snow on the heavy camouflage, his brow furrowed at Arthur’s pout. “Pay attention, buddy. This is important.”

Arthur watched his father kneel and position his rifle. Martin’s gaze was hard through the scope, tracking a hare through a line of trees as it sniffed here and there for food under the snow.

A shot fired, loud, the echo swallowed up by the forest. Red blood on white snow. Arthur hated rifles.

“Did you see what I did, Arthur? Even the smallest critters you can hunt if you’re patient. Patience is everything. When you rush, you miss.” He reloaded the gun with prideful ease. “Go fetch dinner before it freezes.”

The trek to the dead hare wasn’t worth the sweat getting cold under his clothes. Arthur’s boots dug little pits and ditches into the snow as he waded through it, stumbling, the low-hanging branches of trees catching on his coat.

Martin’s voice drifted through the trees. “Arthur?”

When he turned to look for his father, his boot slipped on a hidden stone, sending him tumbling on his back.

At once, he was shadowed, the voices laughing at him quieted. A bear of a man with startlingly blue eyes and dimples on rosy cheeks hidden under a thick beard stood towering. He reached for Arthur with a hand that engulfed his.

His voice was as bulky and heavy as he was, with a thick Scottish accent. “You alright, lad?”

He wasn’t certain that the man was real until that hand took his, the gloves worn like the sleeves of his coat made of buffalo and wolf, his plaid flannel like the color of blood. “Who are you?”

Martin raced through the trees. “Arthur?” He nodded at the man.

“You should be more careful with your son.”

“With all due respect, sir, my son can handle himself.”

The man stood taller, his hands on his belt and his stance wide. “Folks hide traps all through this area of the wood. Can _you_ handle getting caught in one of them? Didn’t think so. And it’s illegal to shoot this close to the lodges.”

“Right, sorry,” Martin muttered to the man’s boots. It amazed Arthur to see his father back down from anyone. It was like seeing a bear spook a wolf into submission.

He smiled at the man when he was winked at. His heart fluttered, the voices in his head humming with a feeling entirely new to the teen. Desire.

+

 

Stress always made the voices louder, clearer, the hallucinations more vivid. Margret had told him it was normal. He didn’t mind the company sometimes. Arthur climbed himself up in a tree, told by his bootlaces that it was a better vantage point for trying his hand at shooting foxes. His gloves were too big for comfort. He kept the one for his trigger hand held in his teeth, freeing his fingers to fire at, and miss, his hunt.

Massaging what he knew would be a nasty recoil bruise, Arthur threw the rifle down in anger, more angry when the fresh snow swallowed his gun when it hit the ground. His nose ran, chest aching from cold lungs, but still he climbed down in search of it. Martin would never let him go out on his own again if he lost that gun.

The whistle startled him, recalling in his mind his own hands snapping a twig in another snowy forest in another frozen state. He was sure it was in his head, so he ignored it until the whistle became longer, more singsong as boots approached.

“Well that’s an awful waste of bullets, kid,” the Scottish voice teased.

It wasn’t one of Arthur’s. He spun, face to face with the man who’d been visiting his wet dreams for a week now. The voices mocked him for his blush, for his heart beating nearly out of his chest. “It was… a fox.”

The man tilted his head before scratching his beard. “A fox? You sure? Haven’t seen one of them in these parts for years.”

Sure enough when Arthur glanced at the snow under the tree where his bullet had hit the bark, there were no paw tracks. Arthur’s eyes stung, his stomach twisting. “Oh… right.”

Even the man’s chuckle was lovely. The voices quieted to hear the sound. “You know you aren’t supposed to shoot this close to the lodges or the camps.”

“Please don’t tell my dad.”

His blue eyes narrowed, but his smile remained ever pleasant. “What’s your name boy?”

“Arthur… Harris.”

“Cutter Gibson.” His hand squeezed Arthur’s when he shook it, enveloping it as if their hands were doing something lewd. “Groundskeeper for these camps and the lodge. And…sort of…sheriff around here.”

“Oh shit…”

Cutter laughed again, but it carried none of the mocking Arthur was used to. It was fond, warm, as warm as his hand when he stepped close and lifted Arthur’s chin. “Tell you what, Arthur, why don’t you let me teach you how to really hunt in these woods. Your old man’s got you picking off creatures that are too small with a gun that’s too big for you.”

“Yes!” His cheeks grew hot with that hand squeezing his shoulder. “Please.”

+

 

Cutter’s neck of the woods in spring seemed to thaw first, the snow peeled away like their fur-lined coats on the porch of his cabin when it rained.

“We’ll keep those dry so we won’t be soaked all the way to the bone when I take you back home.”

So much rich, dark green replaced the winter’s white. Green covered everything. Cutter stood with his bulk flanking Arthur’s back, his big arms incasing him in the misty rain, aiming the rifle with him, his breath hot on the shell on Arthur’s blush-red ear.

“Steady, Arthur. You have the practice, and the patience. Fire when you’re ready.”

The rifle itself seemed to whisper under Cutter’s words, begging Arthur not to disappoint Cutter and miss. The sound of the shot felt so different, so much louder and brutal without snow to soften it. The buck staggered and collapsed as Cutter howled and rushed to finish it off.

Arthur was still smiling even as wet as he was, watching Cutter skin the animal and store its meat back at the cabin. A slab was set aside and packaged for Arthur.

“Send this home to that father of yours. He’ll be proud of this one.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Arthur heard his own voice say, wishing he didn’t sound as struck by Cutter as he was, wishing for a moment that he could have kept that emotion tucked in his ribs where it had been safe and secret all this time.

“You’re sweet.” Cutter’s voice seemed to mirror his as the rain pour harder. “Not often have I come across boys like you.”

 _A freak_ , his mind was quick to supply. It crushed him.

“Oi. Don’t be sad. It’s a good thing. No harm in being sweet, is there? Arthur, look at me.”

A kiss, as sudden and as electrified as lightning.

It was so hesitant at first that Arthur felt safe enough to lean into it.

Cutter’s tongue seemed to come from nowhere, dipping and diving in his mouth like a shovel in the soft soil under their feet.

Arthur pressed his fingertips to his lips as they burned, reminded of the first time he’d cursed in front of his mother. This feeling, this heat was no less taboo and thrilling.

Cutter’s anxious expression only intensified that. “Tomorrow?”

Arthur’s knuckles felt sharp on his lips. His mind was split, half between wishing these knuckles were Cutter’s, the other wishing these knuckles would lash out and connect with Cutter’s face hard enough to knock him down and make him hurt.

He should leave, go home and never come back here. He _should._

In the end he nodded, his eyes on Cutter’s boots, comforted by Cutter’s sigh of relief and the hug that followed.

+

 

Cutter seemed born from the ground like a god of the wilderness. It was a part of every aspect of their relationship, their sex, and even the inside of his cabin itself.

The loft space he’d built with his own hands was so lived in. The floorboards groaned and the faucets whined with years of that life; so unlike Margret and Martin’s even though the winter would mark a whole year that they’d rented the place.

Even the blankets he was wrapped in as Cutter tended the fire in the stove and draped branches of cedar on the mantle, it smelled of pine and the maple Cutter took from the trees himself. His hands were coarse from so many decades spent living off the land. They swept over Arthur’s skin, dipping under the blanket, like a stamp of Cutter’s wild masculinity. Arthur loved to be coaxed by those hands and branded under their power, their control.

+

 

At his parents’ house, there was no end to the list of rules they had. Arthur found himself breaking more and more of them everyday he broke curfew or disappeared into the woods without his father to watch him.

There was only _one_ rule in Cutter’s house.

“You look like a Christmas burrito,” Cutter laughed, fond though as he watched Arthur quickly wrap himself in a blanket. He rolled his and Arthur’s clothes together and left them on the small table next the to door. “When summer comes, you won’t have blankets to hide behind, little prude.”

Arthur stuck his tongue out but hurried for the ladder up to the bedroom with Cutter chasing close behind.

+

 

Arthur yawned under the heavy quilts, on his stomach in Cutter’s bed. “Why are you all by yourself?” He watched Cutter as the man lay beside him, rubbing his soft chest hair, his other hand pillowing his head.

“I like it. It’s peaceful out here, especially in the offseason when all the summit nuts are back in their Portland and Seattle,” he chuckled. “But out here, a man can make his own rules, you know? Nobody to tell me what I can or can’t do, what I can’t have, or feel, for you… It’s just me and that mountain out there.”

“Do you ever get lonely?”

Cutter hummed, grinning over at him. “I have you here to keep me company. You and that big, bright smile.”

Arthur smiled for him, his face half-hidden in the pillow.

He felt rooted in the world for the first time.

Finally, _finally_ , he was home.

+

 

It was raining again, peppered with thunder and lightning from the storm battering Tacoma.

Martin’s fist on Arthur’s door was louder. “Arthur! Open this door right now!”

“No!”

“Listen to me! Open the door!”

Arthur hated crying. Teenaged boys weren’t supposed to cry, yet here he was, sobbing on his bed like a baby with Cutter’s sweater gripped in his hands. “I hate you, dad.” He buried his face in the thick wool, his head pounding.

“Arthur, come on,” Martin pleaded. “You know better than this. He’s a grown man! He had no business being around you at all! He has a record, for Christ’s sake!”

“Arthur, please,” Margret’s calm voice joined her husband’s. “You know we love you and only want what’s best for you. Your father’s right. You are only just a boy. What you were doing isn’t safe for you. Please, open the door so we can talk.”

 _Liars_. “Liars,” Arthur said, mimicking the only voice making sense. “You just want to keep me locked up here, cut off from everyone so I can be just like you, dad! You’re just jealous because I love him and hate you!” He picked up the nearest thing he could reach and hurled the book at the door, scaring them both.

The binding cracked when the book clattered on the floor. “Shit,” he muttered, rushing to cradle the book. “I’m so sorry.”

He could hear Margret gasp. “Arthur? When did you stopped taking your medication? Arthur! Martin, what’s the matter with you? I told you to be more responsible with him! Arthur? Let me in!”

 _They just don’t want us to be together_. “I don’t need your stupid pills!” _You never did._ “I never did!” He put the book back on his desk and went to work forcing the old lock on the window to move. The wood frames whined when he pushed up the window to climb out.

Night had long since fallen. He grabbed his coat and boots and made the trek in the dark. He could have done it blindfolded; he’d cut through these trees and weaved past the other cabins enough times to know the way. His heart and head were pounding still, his teeth chattering in the cold rain, but it was worth it. He would do anything to be with the only person who had ever treated him like an adult, like an equal.

He was shivering by the time Cutter answered his door. “Arthur? Jesus, what are you doing out here?”

“I escaped.”

“ _Escaped_? Whoa, whoa, whoa.”

Arthur was surprised when he wasn’t let in. He stood on the porch holding himself, soaked to the bone. “They weren’t going to let us be together. I had to get away.”

Cutter grimaced, leaning on the doorframe. He scratched his beard and the stubble on his neck before he rubbed his eyes and cursed. “Yeah, I know. Your father called earlier. Listen, Arthur, I don’t want any trouble, okay? I’ve got a good thing going here. People respect me, you know?”

Arthur waited for Cutter to move to let him pass, but it didn’t happen. “I don’t understand. I love you.” He stood on his tiptoes to kiss Cutter the way the man liked it.

Cutter held his arms, gently stepping him back. “I know you do. That’s always made me feel _really_ good, but… You need to get home to your folks. I don’t want any trouble. It was a mistake, Arthur. I’m sorry.”

“No. _I love you_.” Arthur couldn’t understand why those words weren’t working. They were supposed to. His mother and father said them to each other all the time. He stressed them again, making sure Cutter heard him.

“Arthur, go. Please. Look, your dad’s right. You’re a kid. I shouldn’t have ever—”

“No. I’m not.”

“ _You’re a kid_.”

“No. You said I wasn’t one anymore, remember? You said…”

“A lot of things, I know. I’m sorry.”

“You said if anyone ever tried to tear us apart, you’d protect me. You said you’d kill for me! Do it. Kill my dad. You don’t know what he’s like. You don’t know how he tries to control me! Do it!”

“No! Jesus, Arthur, are you nuts?”

“You said you’d protect me. Protect me, Cutter… Please!” His chest ached. “I’m _not_ a kid. We're supposed to be together because you love me.  _Listen to me_!”

Cutter had turned to close the door, but Arthur had grabbed his arm. He clenched his fists, startling Arthur with his glare. He lashed out his big hand, closing it around Arthur’s throat. Terrified, Arthur was dragged into the house and choked, pinned against the nearest wall. “Cutter!”

“No, Arthur, you’re an adult,” he spat out. “You’re big and strong. _Tough_ , right? You know everything! You don’t need anybody to tell you what to do but _I’m_ supposed to listen to _you_? I could snap your neck.”

Arthur tried to kick him off. His nails dug into Cutter’s hand but still he couldn’t free himself. He was trapped. “Stop it,” he choked out. “Stop!”

“Still love me? Huh? Still want me to protect you? Say it, then.”

“N-no…” He was dropped, his coat sleeve tearing as Cutter pulled him to his feet and pushed him further into the house. He stumbled onto the kitchen floor, sobbing. “Why are you treating me like this?”

“You wanted to prove a point. Prove your point, Arthur. Strip. You want to stay with me, well you follow the rules in my house.”

He was ashamed when Cutter’s heavy boot falls made him curl up more in the corner he’d found. “I don’t want to! Not like this! Please, I love you. Why are you being mean to me? You love me.”

Cutter braced his hands on the kitchen table, shaking his head at Arthur. “Why? Because you’re hardheaded, you brat! Jesus, I should have known better than to get involved with you. You were too needy. I was doing good here. I’m not going to prison for you. I worked too hard to get where I am. You’re _not_ going to take that from me.”

“No. You love me. I know you do!”

Cutter charged forward, his hand shaking his crotch at Arthur. “You want my ‘love’ right now?”

Arthur shook his head, rubbing his neck, the shock thawing him. His tears burned. “No.”

“Then stop crying. Get up and go home before I change my mind.”

“You’re lucky, boy,” Arthur heard him say as Cutter stomped up the ladder to his bedroom, “my temper’s never been this forgiving with anyone before.”

“You don’t know what I’ve done,” Arthur heard himself say in barely a whisper. He stood slowly, angered by the pale yellow mixed with the rain where he’d been curled into himself on the tile floor.

He’d seen piss on white before, he remembered that fear, those tears, cold and shivering on the snow in terror, and those other boys.

 _You are not this weak._ “I’m not this weak.” His head swam. He looked over at the ladder, swaying on his feet as Cutter came back down.

“What the fuck are you still doing here, boy?”

 

Arthur was shocked numb again as he picked up the phone, shaking. He kept his eyes close to block out the harsh light in the kitchen, the blood, Cutter.

It took a small eternity before Margret answered. ”Arthur? Oh my god! Where are you? Martin! Come quick!”

“Mom…”

“Tell me where you are so we can bring you home. Arthur?”

“I…” The red on his hands brought tears to his eyes.

“Arthur? You’re frightening me. Please.”

He could already see the look on Martin’s face, knowing his father would have to come get him, and help him fix this. His voice trembled. He sobbed, getting blood on his shirt when he pressed his hand over his heart. He felt nothing there. “I made a really, really big mistake.”

++

+

+

 

Arthur stood frozen in place, his heart pounding out of his chest as Eames closed the door and spoke to the FBI agent outside. The other’s voice, British like Eames’ only rougher, seemed to overpower Eames. He pressed his ear to the door, listening to Eames toss back the man’s barbs with less and less strength.

He rubbed his ear, unable to stop fretting. He wanted to pace, or simply run to the back door and escape, but he ignored the warnings of his constant company. Half of them screamed at him that he was idiot if he trusted Eames. The man would betray him. Hadn’t it happened enough times? The other half, the always louder, more aggressive voices all wished that Eames would.

Worse. Eames and his boss wouldn't arrest him. They'd catch him and take an axe to his body, burn the pieces and leave them in the forest for the moss and animals to do the rest.

“Stop,” he whispered, even though it never really helped. He pressed his hands to the door, his headache growing, and tried to listen past all the noise to hear Eames and his boss talk.

Eames and the agent were laughing together. Impulsively he strained to hear Eames’, his eyes closed to focus on it, but the other agent's was too overwhelming at first. Eames’ quiet chuckle was tight, forced underneath. Still the sound filled Arthur, dialing back the chaos as the others wanted to hear that graveled sound too. He inhaled deeply, relaxing, calming.

But it was wrong. His blush, the heat in his chest and stomach, the pounding in his heart, it was all wrong. He stepped back, feeling the immense tension in his neck and shoulders again as the chaos returned.

The headache was a welcomed pain. He grounded himself in it, breaking free from Eames’ distraction before he could get lost in it again.

He was drawn to Eames. In dangerous ways, more and more comfortable in this man's space, more and more… ‘needy,’ as Cutter had said.

It hadn't escaped Arthur for a second that Eames was built a certain type of way – bigger, older, gruff, impossibly male – that always struck Arthur, made him want, made him vulnerable. His whole life was a war of control and chaos, but whenever he found himself in the gaze of an older, stronger man who could take away his control and substitute their own, it was like a drug to him.

He'd felt that loss of control today, and that strength. It had been in Eames from day-one, locked down somewhere deep. Eames' hug could have crushed him. If Arthur wasn't the man he was now, Eames could have done him real damage if he’d wanted to. There were plenty enough men built like him who had, though not a single one of them were still alive to enjoy it for long.

Only, Eames was different. It was obvious that no matter Eames' size, he was harmless. Not weak, but not intimidating either.

 _Not Cutter_. Eames was far, far better. He was perfect. And he would protect Arthur, because unlike other men, it was Eames' nature to protect.

_But who would protect Eames, then?_

The knives were all clean and placed in their wooden holder on the kitchen counter. Arthur could have his pick and put Eames’ boss down quick so that he and Eames could get back to business… but it would upset Eames. He hated upsetting Eames.

Footsteps on the porch brought him out of his head. He held his breath when the knob turned, but only Eames came through the door.

“Well, that was a close one. Thank god Yusuf got himself lost on a wrong turn. Otherwise, they would have run straight into each other and we’ve had all been screwed,” Eames muttered, running a hand through his hair. “You okay? You’re still…deer in headlights. What? You didn’t think I’d abandon you. Did you?”

 _Yes._  He let the breath go, massaging his aching shoulders and neck. “How soon will Yusuf have information?”

Eames shrugged. “Couple days at the latest. What else we gave him, might take longer, depending on his workload.”

“We don’t have that kind of time, Eames.” Arthur’s shoulders sank as he paced, his anxiety trying to take hold again, but he held it down. “Cobb must be laughing at me wherever he is. He knows that I won’t last a couple more days. He’ll keep lying low until my medication runs out and—” He quickly glanced at Eames, falling silent. He ran a hand through his hair too, wishing Eames would hug him again.

Maybe Eames wasn’t a bad distraction. Maybe he needed to let go for a bit. He’d felt good enough in those arms. He wanted… _needed_ to revisit them, especially now that he knew Eames was on his side. And wasn’t contact a normal thing for normal people? “Tell me about your family.”

The glance Eames leveled at him spoke a thousand words, all echoed in Arthur’s head. “You make a point to tell me about my family all the time.”

Arthur hated that tone. “No, not that.” He waved his hand dismissively, impatient to hear a better attitude from Eames. “Tell me good stuff?”

Eames snorted. “Hell no.”

Arthur clenched his jaw, wishing that for once an emotion other than rage could take control over the others. Eames snipped at him often, just as much as Arthur snipped back, but Eames was serious about keeping Arthur out. It worried him, and that feeling of worry angered him. He shouldn’t need anything from Eames, but he did. “Please?”

Eames began to refuse again, but stopped himself, sighing. “Come on. In the kitchen.”

“I hate your kitchen. It gets cluttered too fast. I can’t think in there.”

“Help me clean it?”

Arthur glanced from Eames to the kitchen. He'd feel much more comfortable being wherever Eames was, and if Eames wanted to go to the epicenter of Arthur’s stress in this house, then… so be it. He nodded.

+

 

Eames couldn’t believe his luck, good _and_ bad. Adeyemi always asked to come into his house, if not for any other reason than to comment on Eames’ hoarding or raid his snack cabinets, but he hadn’t even touched a shoe to the porch steps before leaving. So he and Arthur hadn't been caught yet. That was good. 

But at the same time, Adeyemi was a city man. He hated the quiet life, the scenery, and everything else that came with small town living, and yet he couldn't run out of questions about what Eames was doing with his free time. Not a single question about the case, not a single update of the team's progress or failures, or even the status of the committee's review. Nothing.

Eames really was done with the agency, then. The words didn't need to come from Adeyemi's mouth. Everything else he'd said or didn't say was clear enough. He sighed, tossing Arthur an apologetic glance when the sound caught the boy’s attention.

He studied Arthur’s back as Arthur cleaned the countertops. Arthur Harris had caused all of this. Chasing him and now keeping him here. What an odd thing, that Arthur had more faith in Eames' abilities than Adeyemi did. 

“Mum’s married,” Eames blurted out, standing beside him as Arthur meticulously inspected the cleaned dishes from the dishwasher.

Arthur held a glass in the light, frowning at a questionable smudge, but the corner of his mouth quirked up when he heard Eames speak. “Was beginning to think you were mad at me." He turned on the faucet water to hand wash the smudge away. "You don’t sound happy for her.” 

Eames leaned against the counter, looking out the window at the river. It would be easy to tell tales and keep Arthur out of his personal life, but he answered, realizing that he’d never talked to anyone about his mother before. “No. But I try to be.”

“Is he a bad person? I could kill him for you?”

“He’s perfect, honestly. There’s no bad bone in that man. He’s good to her. She’s finally happy.”

“ _But_ …”

Eames shrugged a shoulder. “No one’s really perfect, are they?”

“And you’re just waiting for his imperfection to surface.”

Eames took the offered the dishes and stacked them in the cabinet. “For seven years now.”

Arthur stepped past Eames to rearrange the dishes Eames had just put away, fitting them more neatly into the space. “Just seven? Hm. That was a long time coming for her to remarry.”

“Oh no, she was married twice before this one. The first, after my father, I arrested for fraud and the second I found was a child support dodger for his past wife’s children.”

“Pity them for having a law enforcement officer for a son-in-law. But their crimes are nothing too severe. Considering.” He grinned.

“Yeah, well,” Eames muttered, “you can’t be too careful in this world.”

“That’s true, which is why my offer still stands. Your mother raised a good boy. She doesn’t deserve to be sullied by a man you hate.”

“I don’t hate him. I just… Well, I told you, he’s… He makes her happy. And I’ve done a good twenty background checks on him for nearly a decade and nothing’s turned up," he muttered in an afterthought. "It  _could_ , eventually, but it probably won’t.” Eames sighed, frowning at himself now that he could hear how foolish his thoughts sounded aloud.

Arthur contemplated his words, plucking up the scattered newspapers and case folders. He had a far away look in his eyes when he muttered, “Men are terrors.”

“Some are.”

“All of us. In some way, either here or there, there's always that capacity to hurt others. We even hurt ourselves.”

“He has cancer," Eames said after a while. "He and mum are confident that he’s close to remission, but—”

“But no one’s perfect, although he's come pretty close in your opinion, and you want him to continue to fill the space he does for a very long time, so long as your mother is happy with him." He nodded. "Do you speak with her often? Visit?”

“We call—She calls me," Eames answered, taking the offered broom. "Everyday, in fact."

"Yeah?" Arthur's smile seemed completely innocent in his excitement. "What's it like?"

"Nagging." Eames frowned at Arthur's glare. "Comfortable," he amended. "I... It's calming, hearing her voice. Good start to the day." 

Arthur tilted his head, intrigued. "What do you talk about?"

"Me, her garden, her husband, his progress. Her constant passive-aggressive attempts to get me out of my house and to go to some social something she's seen invites for on her facebook, or her even louder attempts to push me towards a... a lover, a... friend—"

"A boyfriend," Arthur provided, tilting his head in a teasing, knowing way when Eames glared.

Eames relented, his cheeks hot as he nodded. "Yeah, okay. A boyfriend, who'll adopt kids with me so she can have grandchildren." He shifted his weight. "She has a neighbor that she's convinced is selling illegal drugs in his house. We talk about that a lot as well." He chuckled, thinking back on his and his mother's last argument about the man. "But really he's just having multiple affairs while the wife and kids are all at work or school."

He smiled, glancing at the phone on the wall as if he were expecting her call that moment. "I enjoy it here, and the distance between home and work, even the drive."

"You enjoy... being alone."

"I do, but that distance can be... awfully quiet sometimes, so getting to talk to her on the way to Quantico or DC is nice. But I haven’t been answering lately. Not sure what to say to her.”

Arthur smiled sadly. "She doesn’t take her son for granted. You should call her yourself some time. Surprise her.” He stopped his steady tidying. He rubbed his ear, his back turned again. “I miss Margret.”

“Mallorie Cobb?”

Arthur nodded.

“What would happen if you called her? With Cobb in the wind, he’d be a fool to go to her. There’s no doubt in my mind that wherever he is, she isn’t. You could call. Sway her.”

Arthur shook his head. “I’ve watched Cobb build our house a few times, when I was younger and we lived deep in the forests across the North Pacific. You need a solid foundation to build on. Dominic Cobb and Mallorie are a foundation. They depend on one another, they support together the whole structure. I’m just…” He shrugged. “I’m a window cut out or the shingles on the roof. An add-on, Eames. I don’t know anything about who they are outside of Margret and Martin Harris, but I know she's not a woman who sways. Ever.”

“But if Cobb’s separated from her?”

Arthur had to think for a moment to understand Eames’ meaning. He snorted. “If Cobb’s gone to prison, I will be too, so it wouldn't exactly matter then. You _are_ still going to send me back to prison, after all. We might as well not pretend other wise.”

Eames opened his mouth to speak and was surprised for what felt like the hundredth time that day, because Arthur in prison wasn’t a reality he could see as clearly as he had before.

“She’d come to the prison dressed in her very best to see _him_ ,” Arthur muttered, tucking the chairs in snug against the table, giving the kitchen more space. “Maybe she would visit me too.” He smirked, his laugh an amused huff. “Probably not.”

“Hm.” Eames sighed, feeling strangely breathless and off balance. “Down goes the foundation, and the roof and the window cut-outs with it.” He couldn’t laugh at his own joke, but Arthur did.

“Like we three were all caught up in a landslide," Arthur teased in a quiet voice, his eyes on the river outside, "right down the mountain, and you're standing uphill, holding the detonator, huh, Eames?”

+

 


	13. Chapter 13

+

 

Eames tried not to be so quiet that evening as they skimmed over papers and research again. The conversation in the kitchen still refused to sit well in his stomach.

He noticed Arthur studying him. Every few minutes, he’d glance over and catch him. “Hm?”

Arthur muttered, “Just trying to figure you out.” He settled lower, slouching and idly musing his hair. “Why are you all by yourself, Mr. Eames?”

Eames looked back down at his notes and cleared his throat. “I told you. I prefer it.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Eames didn’t answer.

Arthur continued to stare for a moment longer before speaking again. “I hate being alone. But, for me, it’s the best option. Except… I’m too selfish for that. You, on the other hand, you’re… Well, you’re you.”

“Meaning?”

“Why spend so much of your life trying to save the world from monsters when you refuse to let yourself enjoy that world? All those people out there that you 'serve and protect'…at least a few of them would be lucky to get to roll around with you. No?”

Eames shook his head and turned the page.

Arthur frowned. “I don’t get it then. What’s wrong with you?”

Eames laughed rather than be offended. “Where to begin?” 

Arthur watched him for a long time as Eames pretended to read more notes, praying that Arthur would give up and talk about something else or talk of nothing at all.

“Eames?”

“Hm?”

“How old were you when your father killed your sisters? It’s been what? Fifteen, twenty years since?”

“Am I now being psycho-analyzed?”

“Do you always dodge, or is this a recent development?”

“Most people know better than to ask in the first place, Mr. Harris.”

Arthur smirked, his arm resting on the back of the couch. “I’m not most people.”

“No, you’re not. Thankfully and unfortunately.”

“Uniqueness is interesting. Leads to interesting questions, not safe ones.”

“And you are very unsafe.”

“And you’re still dodging my question.”

Eames felt painfully small under the weight of his own silence.

Arthur’s smile fell as he draped his arm along the back of the couch. He touched Eames’ shoulder with his fingertips, careful, intrusive, but absent of his normal intimidation. “You know," he began slowly, "I’ve fucked… a _significant_ number of men, Mr. Eames. I fuck… and I kill.”

“Not at the same time, I hope.”

“Sometimes. Most times." He paused, his eyes on Eames, but unseeing as he formed his words. "I feel guilt.”

“For killing them.”

“For loving them, for  _trying_  to love them, because loving them and letting them love me… is what precipitated their lives ending in my hands. Big men with big egos and big fists...little hearts. Even smaller than mine," he teased, mocking Eames though the man hadn't said a word.

When Eames did speak his words seemed to surprise Arthur from the way his brow rose as Eames asked, "They hurt you?"

"They did, yeah."

"Did they know who—"

"No. They just assumed I was harmless. Just some harmless little thing they could push around. They were always so nice in the beginning..."

"You think that justifies killing them? Why not just steer clear? That's what I would have done. You're only proving _my_ point, not yours."

"Ah, but you're smart. See, you know not to stick your hand in an alligator's mouth. I see one and climb all the in and then am surprised when they bite. So I bite back."

"Who should I feel sorry for, you or them?" He hadn't meant to voice that, but it was already past his lips and in the air. 

" _I feel guilt_ , Eames.  _I am a bad person_." He pointed at his chest. "I am." He pointed at Eames. "You aren’t. And yet, were I to want it badly enough, or even at all, I could go out and find someone to look at me, to fuck me, knowing that I'll get hurt and then retaliate. Death is always a probable outcome, around me. It’s my shadow. I know this, but I’d still do it. I still welcome men into my harm. But Eames, you…  _are_  pure and—”

“And you’re late taking your medication.”

Arthur’s fingers drifted up to press softly against Eames’ lips, silencing him. “Your one fault is that you never allowed yourself the time to be a victim back then so you could heal. Or, perhaps more accurately, you were never given the chance. You were a little boy, short of being a baby, when your father killed. You couldn’t have known, or stopped it, or saved your sisters let alone the others. That was before. Afterwards, you never became him. You’re still nothing like him. But you still… feel… guilt." His voice took on a touch of awe. "Far more guilt than I do and you haven't done anything wrong.”

“That’s normal for people like you, Arthur, to not feel the same way normal people do. I’m actually surprised that you feel and recognize guilt within yourself at all.”

Arthur’s smile was bitter, even hurt. “You’re not me, Eames. Not at all. I don't feel enough. You feel too much. Unnecessarily.”

Eames’ lips tingled under Arthur’s caress. He turned his head away enough to sever the contact though its sensation still lingered. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, still pointedly looking away. “So what’s your prognosis, doctor? Are you going to put on your most sympathetic mask and tell me that all I need to do is ‘let go’ of the past? Just toss it out, like an old undershirt?”

“No," Arthur snorted. "That’s silly. There’s nothing wrong with the shirt. It’s old, but not worn out and holey. You have had it on for a really long time, though. You've let it get dirtied with… With the media’s sensationalist, tabloid garbage, and schoolboys calling you a freak on the playground, right?  _And_  their parents thinking the same but being ‘polite’ about it, as parents so often are. And then the expectations and mad wonderings by your peers and colleagues all thinking that, just maybe, there might be a little monster growing inside you, some reincarnation of your old man, and they’re waiting for that day when you snap and blah blah blah.” Arthur shrugged when Eames finally looked at him. “Just wash it. Bleach out the stains. Put it back on. Put a nice sweater on top of it, or a buttondown… Better.”

Eames chuckled and rubbed his face. “Amazing. Arthur, you are amazing.”

“Are you making fun of me? I was being sincere.”

Eames chuckled again, setting aside the papers for his laptop. “You and I both, darling.”

“Why do you call me that?”

Eames glanced up from the crime photos on his screen, feeling his ears get red. “Oh… Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s nice. I’ve been called a lot of things, but nothing sweet before you.” He touched his own lips with the fingers he'd pressed to Eames'.

Eames' gaze followed the motion. Distracted, he muttered, "That's a real pity." 

"Think so?"

He glanced up at Arthur's tone, surprised by his expression. "Sure." He blushed, rubbing his beard.

Arthur studied him for a moment longer before dropping his eyes back to the papers in his lap. 

Eames felt as if something had happened between them that he in no way understood.

Arthur had a grin on his face that made Eames a little nervous. He felt obligated to smile back when Arthur glanced at him again, so he did.

Arthur seemed to make up his mind about something then before he placed the papers on the table, stood and stretched, his shirt riding up his stomach. “Stay put, okay? I’m going to take a quick shower.”

“Right. I’ll just… be… looking at this, then.” Eames cleared his throat and tried to focus on his scrolling.

Only, as the minutes ticked by, all his mind could think of was how long Arthur was staying in the shower. He glanced at the bathroom door. What on earth was Arthur doing in there all this time?

He stopped that thought fast, clamping down and redirecting his mind to the news articles he searched.

Still… he could hear the louder clatter of water splashing over the fainter, constant stream every now and then, unable to stop the vision of that water on Arthur's skin.

Damn, he was lonely. Being around another person made that painfully clear. Once this was all over, he’d… do something. Go on a date. Socialize. Whatever. With someone his age, his pace, with his morals. Or just continue to play it safe and avoid such risks. That option still seemed the most sensible, even with his cock hard under his laptop, even with his heart aching for someone to give it to.

The water turned off. Eames sank lower in his chair and adjusted himself in his trousers. He massaged his temples before reaching for his cup of water.

When he glanced up, Arthur returned to the living room in his t-shirt and boxers, toweling his hair.

Eames took a sip. When he glanced up again, Arthur had stripped naked.

He stood in front of Eames, that smirk from before returned. “Isn’t this better?”

Eames choked on his water, nearly spilling it on his laptop. Arthur stepped closer, his full black mamba tattoo and the little mountain on his chest so lewd on his naked skin. He took the cup away from Eames' limp hand and closed the laptop. He sat both on the coffee table.

“Arthur… what… are—” He was hushed.

Soft lips pressing against his surprised Eames as Arthur climbed into his lap. Eames’ brain shut off. With Arthur’s weight pressing him to the chair, Arthur’s tongue slipping past his slack mouth, Eames felt fevered, hot enough to risk melting into the couch. 

Instinctively, he chased those lips, moaning when Arthur sucked his lip past his before his tongue took over, pressing into Eames' mouth.

Instinctively, his hands gripped Arthur's hips. Arthur's  _naked_ hips. Eames quickly let go, balling his hands into fists on the armrests. He closed his eyes again the second he looked down, getting an the eyeful of blushed and tattooed skin, rosey, hard nipples, the little wrinkle in Arthur's abdomen as his back bowed, and the stark, black patch of thick curling hair surrounding his hard sex. Only the fear of coming right then in his trousers and embarrassing himself staved off doing just that. 

Arthur’s kiss was hypnotic. His lips trailed to Eames’ neck as nimble fingers unbuttoned his shirt and belt. “You smell really good,” he whispered, his breath hot against Eames’ ear.

"Arthur... wait..." Eames could only watch Arthur pull back and slide down his body until he knelt on the floor between Eames’ legs. “Arthur… you…” He couldn’t remember what he’d been trying to say when Arthur reached into his opened trousers and freed his hardening cock from his old boxers.

“ _Christ_ , Eames.” Arthur bit his lip, stroking him. “Big boy.”

Eames' blush nearly covered him. He could die sitting in this couch, murdered by those words and that grip. He tried to speak again, but his crown disappeared past Arthur’s lips, sliding over his tongue and against the roof of his hot mouth.

A strangled sound was all Eames could get out, seeing and feeling Arthur take more of his cock. The pressure, the warmth as Arthur’s tongue curled under the base, and the squeeze just at the tip as Arthur swallowed him down… Eames could feel his release fast coming again, even harder than before. 

Arthur's head bobbed slowly, mercilessly as if he were savoring Eames' length with his lips and tongue, his dark eyes sweeping up Eames' body. Eames groaned as the room’s cool air suddenly hit his wet cock. But Arthur didn’t go far. He returned to his lap. Eames’ hands gripped his hips without thought again as Arthur kissed him. It made Eames’ head swim. Everything was happening so fast and yet so torturously slow.

He nearly came, the proof weeping out of his cock in clear little ropes, when Arthur spit on his palm and began to stroke him underneath him, every other stroke gliding his head over slick, soft flesh.

“So," Eames tried, "that’s what you were... up to in the…” He felt lightheaded just saying words that hinted at Arthur fingering himself in the shower. "Oh god, Arthur."

“Mr. Eames speaks at last,” Arthur teased breathlessly. “I was starting to think you were a quiet one.”

“Fuck, Arthur.” Eames swore he would faint from the pressure, slipping between Arthur’s cheeks, right before Arthur relaxed and sank down, slow and yet overwhelming, his body sucking in Eames’ length until he could rest in his lap. It was nothing like being incased in his own hand, nothing like waking up rubbing against warm sheets in bed. Hot and slick, every inch of his flesh was incased fully within Arthur's perfectly tight body. This was heaven. Pure, unfiltered heaven right in his lap.

He clutched at Arthur’s waist, his thighs, the chair arms, anything he could, just to hold on. He was so close already and Arthur hadn’t even moved yet.

Eames could feel Arthur’s body work through the stretch, his legs trembling. Arthur looked so beautiful, so  _powerful_  perched in his lap. His lips were parted and his cheeks pink. His chest rose and fell as he took in each breath, stroking his own cock for a moment. When Arthur’s opened his eyes, they looked black as they stared back at Eames.

“Come on, Eames,” Arthur panted. “Don't be shy. Show me what you can do with this big thing.” He planted his hands on Eames’ shoulders and lifted himself gradually, rocking his hips forward then back. He groaned, sinking down again and repeated the motion, forming a slow, careful rhythm that drew out every single sensation.

This wasn't heaven. It was hell for Eames. Sweet, blissful, overwhelming hell. He could have sworn his cock was getting harder, pulsing as Arthur squeezed him. Eames' hips jerked up of their own accord to stuff his cock as far into that tight heat as he could and remain there forever, chasing Arthur up and bucking as Arthur dropped.

Arthur’s long moan was laced with frustration. It was Eames’ only warning before Arthur began to bounce harder and faster, a smirk on his lips again as he listened to Eames fall apart beneath him. His nails scratched lines from Eames’ shoulders to the thick hair on his chest and down his stomach.

His head fell back as he rode Eames. “God, you feel good. Why didn't we do this sooner?” He gripped the chair behind Eames’ head and leaned back, changing the angle.

It triggered intense signals in both of their brains. Each time Arthur rocked and leaned back just that little bit, his muscles contracted, dragging Eames that much more closer to the edge of release.

"Arthur, wait. P-pause... for a second... T-too close." Eames tried to stop Arthur from angling back, wrapping his arms around Arthur’s waist, listening to Arthur voice his frustration again. 

"Please, Eames, don't make me beg for it."

"Too... too much."

Arthur broke free and stood. He turned around and sat in Eames’ lap, both feet planted firmly on the floor as he sank down and resumed his bouncing.

From this view, Eames could see the details in Arthur's black orchid, whose petals were actually a very deep, dark violet. Beautiful. A perfect, elegant contrast to his hard, athletic build, the lean muscles in his back asking Eames to touch, so he did. 

Arthur ground his hips, arching at Eames' touch. He smiled, breathless as he glanced over his shoulder to tease. "Good boy."

Eames was no match for it. "Oh fuck me..." He dug his fingers into Arthur's hipbones and ribs, his arms, driving his hips up to get Arthur to move faster. His head swam. It was enough just feeling Arthur take him in, but seeing the lovely curve of his ass and the now bruising, small little dimples on his lower back was too much. He parted Arthur cheeks, kneading his soft flesh for just a heartbeat before his orgasm barreled through him.

He may have groaned or cursed or strangled Arthur in his arms, he had no idea. Somewhere, on some far off planet perhaps, Arthur shook as he stroked himself quickly and rocked in Eames’ lap, riding out every ounce of Eames’ release before his body began to pulse and squeeze Eames’ cock like nothing he’d ever dreamed of. The sensation ran through him as if Eames were coming a second time.

Eames felt as if he’d been steamrolled under Arthur as he tried to breathe.

Arthur moaned softly and sighed, content now. “God," he panted, "that was perfect. _Finally_.” Eames’ cock slipped free when Arthur stretched like a cat on top of him, his release coating it obscenely. “Just what I needed, Mr. Eames.”

As the fire in his blood burned out, Eames’ shock returned with force. He sputtered as he panted, watching Arthur stretch again with a trickle of come sliding down between his thighs. His brain shorted out when Arthur ran his fingertips in circles over the come on his stomach and rubbed his legs together, playing with their come.

Eames had to squeeze his eyes shut before he could speak. “Why did you…” He cleared his throat. “I mean, I…”

Arthur shrugged, clearly amused by Eames’ blush and fumbling hands as Eames tried to put his cock back in his trousers while still sitting. He reached for him, his grip squeezing out a final bead of come as he pumped Eames one good time. His brought his hand to his mouth, cleaning it. “You’re my type. And from the way you always look at me, I guess I’m you’re type too. Didn't expect you to be such a moaner." He licked Eames' come from his wrist. "I like that.”

“Well, Arthur,” Eames bristled, “I wouldn’t know. I’ve…never done… _that_  before,” he blurted out, at last finding his words.

Arthur laughed, placing a proud hand on his battered hip. “Is that you’re weird way of telling me I’m one of a kind?" His hand disappeared between his legs and returned with more of Eames' come on his fingertips. He popped them into his mouth like he was sucking candy off of them.  "Thank you, Mr. Eames.”

Eames' blush only made him more flustered. “No, it’s not. _Not at all_ , actually.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed. “What? You’ve never had sex?  _Really_?”

“Really!”

“But…you're… and you keep lube in the shower, in  _this_  bathroom,” he pointed, “ _and_  in the one in your bedroom.”

“Yes!  _And_?”

“Oh! Shit, Eames. Sorry.” Arthur snorted, headed for the bathroom.

He brought Eames a wet clothe, dropping it in his lap. "Well, be proud." He slipped back into his shirt and underwear, even as his and Eames’ sex still spotted his stomach and inner thighs. "Consider yourself a natural, then. Good night, Eames. I can't wait to see what we get into tomorrow."

Arthur kissed him softly, tenderly, before he flopped down on the couch and bundled up in the quilt to sleep.

Eames sat where he’d been left, staring and confused.

+ 

 


	14. Chapter 14

+

 

Eames slept like a man in a coma that night even though he’d expected his mind to race on until morning.

He stumbled into his shower, allowing his tense body to relax under the warm spray for just a moment before he restrained the part of his brain still reeling from last night.

Or tried to.

Naked and lathered up, Eames couldn’t resist bringing his hand to his cock. Just looking down at it, squeezing and stroking it, all he could see and feel was Arthur’s body taking it in.

And what a beautiful, entrancing body it was.

He wanted to have sex with him again, as soon as possible, in this shower, in the guest shower, on the floor, the wall,  _in_   _his bed_ … but such a thing was  _impossible_.

Which was why he shamelessly contemplated hiding in his room. What could he do when he saw Arthur in the living room? What should he say? How should he feel? He had no idea. Nothing was the same now. An investigation, no matter how far from the books, was easy,  _normal_ , but this?

The soft knock on the door scared him near to a heart attack. He blushed. “What?”

Arthur hesitated, opening the door just enough to lean into Eames’ bedroom without crossing the boundary—a feat that surprised Eames, given the circumstances with Arthur’s blatant disregard for boundaries. “Hey.” He shifted his weight on his bare feet. “You okay?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be okay, Arthur?” He wasn’t okay. Not at all with Arthur standing in his doorway still dressed in the t-shirt and underwear he’d slept in and nothing else but the bruises and kiss marks Eames didn’t even remember putting on him until now.

Arthur still looked as weathered in the face as he normally did after sleep, spooked even, but that body and that voice still spoke of acts vivid in Eames’ mind.

He swallowed, turning his back to him. “Well, Arthur?”

“You told me to come get you if I ever woke up first?”

“You didn’t. I’ve been up for hours.”

“Right,” Arthur said slowly, confused. “And you’re…an hour late with…my medication?”

Eames glanced back and watched Arthur toy with the hem of his shirt, a thumb-sized bruise on his hipbone peeking from underneath. He blinked, frowning at the knowing smirk growing on Arthur’s face. “Yeah, right, sorry. Go to the kitchen and I’ll bring it.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur muttered behind him. “You got it.”

Eames rubbed his forehead, considering hiding longer. He went back to the bathroom and unlocked the medicine cabinet instead. "Oh fuck me."

Only five of Arthur's pills rolled around in the bottom of the bottle. A wonderful reminder that there were far, far worse problems afoot than a little schoolboy crush gone off the rails. With the case and with Arthur himself, he'd lost track of the pill count, and at the rate of the investigation, five pills was not at all enough to keep Arthur under control. He needed to focus and  _not panic_.

Easy, with Arthur still mostly unclothed and standing at the kitchen counter with his cereal box in one hand, digging out handfuls with the other to shovel the puffs into his mouth.

Eames had to stop and remind himself that the way Arthur’s ass filled out his little underwear was completely beside the point. He sat the pill on the table and had to stand back for how fast Arthur turned and plucked it into his mouth. He busied himself with his own breakfast, buying time. “You getting dressed today, or no?”

Arthur had to fish out one stray puff from inside his shirt once he sat at the table with Eames. “Am I distracting you from something? There isn’t really a point, is there?”

“Of course you’re not distracting me, but yes, there is a point to clothes, Arthur.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. He moved his cereal aside and sat forward. “Why are you so high-strung after last night—”

“You have four pills left.” Eames pushed the second cup of coffee towards him.

“What?”

“Four pills.”

Arthur sat back, his palms flat on the tabletop, his smirking vanished. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Arthur stared at him in silence until he took the coffee and brought it to his lips. He sighed. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He forced a tired smile. “Don’t worry. We still have today and most of tomorrow. I’m on the strong stuff, Eames.” He took another sip, his expression as tense as his seemingly calm posture. “It’ll take some time before it’s completely out of my system.”

“Still, I’m calling Yusuf and seeing if he can get you a replacement or something.” He swallowed when Arthur laughed in response as if Eames had said anything funny.

“No way in hell. I told you, I don’t trust Mallorie with sending me a bottle in the mail? Second, I’ve tried to get it other ways before.” He shook his head. “Mallorie is the only privilege I have. No way can I get that brand  _or_  that dosage unless it’s through her.  _And_ , there no way that Yusuf can find anything short of what I’m taking either. I’d rather take one pill three times a day than the cocktail I’d need with prescription meds. I burn through them faster than a drought fire in a sagebrush field.” He took another sip and licked his lips. “Teetering on a ledge in the wind, Eames, remember?”

Eames stared, blinking rapidly, his own breakfast and coffee forgotten. “Then how the hell exactly are you just ‘okay’?”

“I’m not going to bludgeon you in your sleep, Eames. If anything, you’ll just to put up with me keeping the television on all night or arguing with your doorknobs. Stop panicking.”

Eames couldn’t help but sit back when Arthur leaned forward, so Arthur stood, surprising Eames when he straddled his lap.

“Arthur, wai—” He melted in Arthur’s kiss. It was so soft, as soft as Arthur’s legs under his hands.

Arthur held his face in a firm hold. “Eames, focus. If you panic, then I’ll panic, and  _then_  we might have problems. We have work to do. Okay?”

Eames opened his eyes, struck by the way the rising sun bathed Arthur and his wild hair in a glow from the window over the sink. “Yeah. Okay.”

+

 

The kiss only worked to relax Eames for a handful of minutes of him forgetting that having sex with Arthur last night was the worst possible thing he had done so far. If it wasn’t clear before, it was now.

Eames was embarrassed for having pushed Arthur out of his lap and fleeing to his room to call Yusuf, yes, but it was the only way of escaping the potential to repeat that mistake.

He hurried to the car with his coat on his arm. The sun was already being chased with heavy clouds.

“So,” Arthur said in a huff, as he buckled his seatbelt, thankfully dressed now but still as cute as ever in Eames’ big coat. “What’s the plan?”

“Well, Yusuf’s sent me a list of roads with checkpoints. Need to avoid those.” He arranged a route on the phone. “And, by some miracle, he’s found us a person I can talk to who isn’t dead! A former intern of the reporter, Janet Macey.“ He paused, the key in the ignition. “Will you be okay, or should you stay home?”

Arthur tilted his head, annoyed and glaring at that sly accusation. He patted the coat pockets and lifted it up for Eames to see the absence of weapons on him.

Eames glared back. “Point made.”

“Can we go now?”

 

They drove through neighborhoods and farm counties until they reached Williamsburg in Virginia.

Eames took a deep breath at the stoplight.

Arthur stretched and yawned, adjusting his sunglasses as he glanced over. “You’re quiet.”

“I was waiting for you to say something first. It’s been over three hours… Surely, Arthur, there is  _something_  we ought to discuss.”

Arthur frowned. “What else can be said?”

“A lot?”

Arthur sighed. “Fine, you win. Ask Yusuf. I’ll try other medications.”

“Not that.”

“Oh?" He sat up, frowning. "What, then? What’s on your mind?”

Eames stared at him until the light turned green. “Nothing,” he sighed at last. “Nothing at all.”

The college campus was crowded with students flocking here and there across the grounds between classes.

“We look like a professor-student duo,” Arthur teased, leaning on the car door as Eames double-checked his information on his phone. “Hot.”

Eames glared at the screen, ignoring him. He gave Arthur no choice but to stay by the car or follow him when he made his way to the nearest gathering of students.

“Hi, I’m looking for Prof. Magdalena Abdullah?” Eames was not at all in love with the thrill he felt when one of the women sitting in the grass eyed Arthur for a long time before she’d looked away.

The professor looked young enough to be a student herself. The little brooch on her pale pink hijab glittered in the sunlight coming in from the wall of windows in the lecture hall. On the projector screen, she pointed to several highlights on a bridal magazine article.

Eames waited in the empty corridor, listening to her lesson, still ignoring Arthur who played hopscotch on the old floor tiles. He had a childish moment of his own, for his urge to push Arthur over. As the minutes ticked down to the new hour, he tried not to take last night personally. Arthur, after all, was doing perfectly fine, as if he hadn’t even been there last night.

Arthur balanced on one foot and jumped to different colored tile with as much grace as a cat. “So, are you going tell me why I’m in timeout?”

Eames huffed, crossing his arms. “Sit on it for a while. Maybe it’ll come to you, then.”

Arthur turned and hopped to another tile and froze with his arms still up to balance him when at last it clicked. His expression behind his sunglasses said the rest. “Eames—”

“Good,” Eames said as the class ended, “now we’re on the same page. Stay put.”

Arthur didn’t argue. Eames moved past the students filling the corridor. The professor was still collecting her notes as Eames made his way down the awkward lecture hall steps.

“Interesting material,” he said, gaining her attention.

“May I help you, sir?”

“Do journalists who worked for the Washington Post really like to study bridal magazines?”

“I wouldn’t know. Please leave my classroom if there isn’t anything else—”

“Journalists like Janet Macey perhaps? If my memory serves me, her writing never graced a subject lighter than presidential elections and their affairs.”

Abdullah paused over her satchel, her paper-stuffing slowed. She looked up at him slowly. “No,” she said softly at last, her voice light, but cautious still, “she— _we_ —hated such things. No point in picking up a paper if you haven’t learned something worth knowing by the time you turn the last page.” Her smile was sad.

“Macey’s words?” He nodded with her. “You were close?”

“As brick is with mortar… Your colleague said that you would come to see me. I had hoped you wouldn’t.”

"I'm not here to put a spotlight on you. You've clearly hid yourself well. I respect that." Eames sat on the edge of the desk, watching her stack test papers. “You know something?”

At last she stopped and sighed, her hands holding the top of the satchel with a protective grip until at last she dug inside one of its pockets. “This was hers. I had it with me when she was… I had taken it with me by mistake.”

He took the envelope, ready to peek in it but she stopped him.

“I am alive because… perhaps I didn’t—and I still don’t, and never will—want to know more than I do, which is nothing except for the fact that… I know she was killed for this. She and I, we… Only our friends know this but, she and I have children together. We were building a beautiful family. They need me. I know absolutely nothing. Do you understand? Your colleague found me, but perhaps…”

He covered her shaking hands. “This information might just turn the tide. You needn’t worry.”

“Sir, I don’t believe you. What is in that envelop is from years ago. If people are still being… _hunted_ , like animals, then I will not ever be safe.”

+

 

Eames forgot that he was mad at Arthur for the moment he met him in the crowded corridor, waving the envelop at him and smiling with anticipation.

He dug into the opened seal as soon as he and Arthur were stopped at another red light.

Arthur sighed, taking off his knitted cap. “We could have fucked this morning, but you didn’t want to.”

Eames spun on him. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He was beside himself when Arthur blinked in response. He sighed like a bull, glaring at the car horn beeping behind them.

The very first second he could pull over, he did, rounding on Arthur with a finger pointed at him. “It was my first time! And you just… You’re so… I get that it’s not a big deal for you  _at all_  and maybe there is no part of your brain that understands how I feel, but believe me when I say this, Arthur. It’s a big deal. Hell, it would be a big deal  _even if you weren’t who you are_.”

He was honestly relieved to get it out and even more so when Arthur stopped him from saying more.

Arthur’s hand felt so good on his cheek, his jaw. That grip was firm on his shoulder.

“I’m a reckless person… who sometimes… does reckless things.”

Eames laughed up at the roof before he sank down on the steering wheel, his head buried in his arms. “I’ve gone completely mad, Arthur. I’m old enough to have teenage kids of my own and yet… here am I! My very first teenaged crisis!”

Arthur hushed him again, massaging his back. “I wish I’d been older, my first time,” he mused.

Eames glanced over. "What was it like for you?"

"I got my cherry popped in the woods." He huffed a laugh at Eames' grimace. “You wanted yours to be romantic?”

“A bed would have been nice. Maybe even a, ‘Hey! We’re attracted to each other, so would you like to go to bed?’”

“You’re attracted to me.” Arthur smiled.

“Of course!—I mean—oh forget it.  _Yes_ , Arthur, I want you.”

“Good.”

“ _Bad_. Jesus, we didn’t even fucking use a condom! What the fuck, Arthur?”

“We can buy condoms.”

“We are  _not_  buying condoms, because we are not doing  _that_  anymore.”

“Say it.”

“Say what?”

Arthur smiled, his voice deep and husky. “Sex, Eames. We’re adults.”

“That doesn’t help.”

“We are adults who are over-stressed, under-slept… and who also happen to fit together very well when we—”

"Arthur." Eames clutched the steering wheel, sitting up. He shook his head.

Arthur seemed to read all the things Eames had no idea how to voice on his own. “Eames,” he leaned over to him, kissing a circle under Eames’ jaw, “take control,” he whispered, still planting kisses and dragging his teeth over thick stubble. “If you want. And when this is all over, if you want to pretend like I never stripped for you and sat in your lap, or… that we never sat in a car like this, with your dick in my hand as the skies opened up, then… do what you have to.”

Eames’ head fell back as he sighed, shifting in the seat to give Arthur’s hand more room to tug and squeeze in his cock in lazy rhythm once it was freed. He watched Arthur suck on his finger and followed it down. He moaned when Arthur dipped that finger past his foreskin and circled around his head, drawing it further out.

“Besides,” he said, as the rain grew heavier, battering the car and the trees shading the road, “we don’t know where we’ll stand, come a few days. You’ve waited…”

Eames’ voice shook. “A really long time, yes.” He took Arthur’s kiss hungrily, grabbing a hold of his hair to keep Arthur well within reach. His head swam, the way it always seemed to do whenever Arthur got his hooks in him.

Arthur smiled against his lips. “Then stop thinking so much. Forget who we are for a moment. We’re attracted to each other, Eames. Would you like to fuck me in the backseat?”

“You annoy the holy hell out of me sometimes.”

Arthur smirked, showing Eames his hands, his wrists pressed together as if they’d been handcuffed.

“We don’t have condoms. And I’m not running to some quick mart to buy them in this downpour.”

Arthur sighed, shaking his head. “This is why you never had sex before me, and never will again once I’m gone.”

Eames kissed him just to end that line of discussion, but that kiss quickly left his control again as he grabbed Arthur’s coat and pulled him closer. He still didn’t know what he was doing, in every sense, but Arthur was a man, and he was here, and he was kissing Eames the way Eames had always imagined a man would kiss him. He was lost in Arthur’s attention, bucking into Arthur’s hand when he was startled by a car speeding past them. “Arthur, we should…”

Only, Arthur had that look in his eyes again, one that made Eames’ throat dry and his cock strain. He didn’t argue his point. He let Arthur reach past him for his seat and lower it down. On his back now, he dipped his hand into the back of Arthur’s coat, rubbing his neck, the other he ran through that soft brown hair.

Arthur relaxed over the armrest between them and took Eames into his mouth, bobbing with enough pressure that Eames’ grip tighten, his hips fighting not to choke Arthur until Arthur choked himself. He could feel Arthur gag, over and over, feel his fist tugging more of that length past his lips. He let Arthur run smooth nails under his shirt and rake over the thick hair covering his chest and stomach.

His eyes drifted to the car’s roof. He closed his eyes and let his pants and grunts and Arthur’s sucking take him away. He stuttered out a deep moan when Arthur relaxed his throat more, that hand drifting down to push at his balls and tease them in his palm.

"Arthur..."

 

The rain came down hard enough to make the sun and clear skies of the morning in Maryland feel like it had been a dream, as if the rain would never end.

Soaking wet, they rushed to the backseat, tossing a bag from the gas station onto the floor.

Eames’ heart was pounding from the run. He pulled Arthur’s cap off as Arthur stripped them out of their coats and made quick work of Eames’ shirt. He brushed Arthur’s wet hair back behind his ears as they kissed and tickled a moan from Arthur when his thumbs trailed the shell of his ears. Arthur’s back arched, his hips nudging Eames to get those tight jeans off.

Arthur kicked off his shoes. “Go on,” he panted, “pop the button off. We can sew it back on when we get home.”

Eames listened, pulling down the zipper before he grabbed the denim band and yanked Arthur’s pants open with a grunt. The button clattered under the seat, forgotten when Arthur pulled Eames down over him. He had to hold onto the handle on the ceiling with how roughly Eames pulled his pants off and the underwear Eames wished he could rip open. His lips were on Arthur's tattoo at once, sucking a line done the snake's coil. 

“Eames, let me see you.”

Again, Eames obeyed, getting his own pants and boxers down to his knees. Fevered, his hands swept up Arthur’s legs as Arthur lifted them up, inviting Eames to grind between them.

He groaned, clutching Arthur’s thighs in a firm grip, their cocks leaking together, slipping and gliding against Arthur’s stomach as Eames kissed a greedy line from the collar of his shirt up his neck.

Arthur bucked against him. “Eames?”

“Yes?”

“Tell m—” He huffed, smiling. “What do  _you_  want to do to me, Eames?”

“I want to fuck you,” he panted, fumbling with the condom. “I want to be inside you again. I want to hear you say my name the way you did last night.” It was a thrill all by itself just to voice those words. He hiked Arthur’s legs up over his shoulders, aiming his cock.

“Oh no you don’t Mr. Eames. Not that fast,” Arthur chuckled, pushing Eames back with his feet. “First lesson. Prep. Get the lube.”

“Oh! Right, right.”

Arthur took the little bottle with a smile. Eames watched him slick his own fingers and circle his hole. Arthur’s eyes were so dark, locked on Eames’ red face and his panting mouth. He grimaced slightly, his teeth bared like a snarling, dangerous thing as he breeched himself with two long, slender fingers and sighed with a smile. With the slick from his free hand, he stroked Eames before he spread his legs higher, wider, hooking his hand behind his knee.

“Can I tell you a secret?”

Eames had to take a breath before speaking. “Shoot.”

“It hurt." Arthur bit his lip, his hungry gaze pointed at Eames' length. "That thing hurt. It was good.”

Eames hadn’t noticed that he’d been mindlessly stroking himself until now. He squeezed his cock at the base, a little bead of precome roping down to Arthur’s thigh. “Y-yeah?”

“Yeah. I should have known better than trying to stretch myself, huh?”

Eames moaned and gripped his base tighter, taking Arthur’s as well. Arthur wasn’t a small man at all, but Eames was thicker, his head fatter than Arthur’s smooth, cut length.

“I need your help. Will you do this for me?”

Eames squeezed his cock tighter still, thinking he would come when Arthur hooked his pointer fingers in his hole, stretching it as he looked up at Eames and said, “Yours are much bigger than mine.”

“Oh fuck, Arthur.” He let Arthur take his hand and poured the lube liberally on his fingers before he guided one to his hole and urged Eames to push. “Oh, boy…” Arthur seemed to melt around him as he thrust. At once, his finger sought that spot, making Arthur’s hole squeeze him even more.

He was panting with Arthur when he brought a second finger to that spot.

Arthur’s head was fallen back, his neck a long arched column as his adam’s apple bobbed. He swallowed, closing his eyes, his lips parting in a sigh. “Eames… M-more. Deeper.” He propped himself on his elbow and stroked himself quickly. His fingers trailed further down, meeting Eames’. “How does that feel?”

“Fucking tight. Jesus!”

He laughed breathlessly. “Too tight for your big dick?”

“Yeah! Isn’t it?”

“Give me another one, then.” He winced and groaned, bucking his hips.

Arthur was still impossibly snug. “Oh my God.”

“Better?”

“You feel so fucking good, Arthur.”

He smiled. “Now, what was it that you wanted to do to me?”

“I want to fuck you.”

“Then fuck me.” He reached up for the handle in the ceiling again, bracing himself.

It was all Eames needed. He slicked the condom again hastily and pushed, tumbling down on top of Arthur clumsily. The sound he pushed out of Arthur made them both blush, but he was sheathed, his hips heavy on the back of Arthur’s trembling thighs.

Arthur was the first to recover, rocking his hips as much as he could under Eames’ weight to get him moving.

Eames moaned into his hair with every slow thrust, wrapping his arms under Arthur’s neck as he found his rhythm. Arthur released the handle, rocking with Eames now, his fingers drawing circles on Eames’ back. He traced Eames’ biceps and shoulders before that touch tingled down Eames’ spine.

It was everything he’d imagined it would be, taking control, taking Arthur like a lover, their bodies tight together, facing one another as they stole each other’s air and heat.

Under Arthur’s t-shirt, his nipples were hard, tempting Eames every time Arthur arched his back. He rose to his elbows to see more of him. Between that shirt and his own legs tangled in his pants, their sex felt rushed as he fucked Arthur faster, harder, and hidden from the world in the downpour outside.

“Eames,” Arthur keened, surprising Eames as he fell apart and lost his breath, his composure. Last night, he'd been so sure in his movements. Now, he was at Eames' mercy. His lips moved to say more, but Eames was angling his hips and near pounding him further and further against the car door. Lost of words and gasping, Arthur pulled up his shirt and arched his back again, giving Eames his chest to play with.

Eames sucked greedily on the first nipple, grinning when Arthur pushed against the window behind him desperately and cursed. He twirled his tongue over and around the second peak, getting Arthur’s fists tangling in his hair. He grabbed the back of Arthur’s legs and brought him up flush against the door, trapping him in his lap.

He pinched Arthur’s nipples between his knuckles. “This feels good?” He groaned with surprise when Arthur answered by catching his nipple between his teeth, his nails racking down Eames’ hairy chest to his stomach. Eames bucked harder at that, wrapping an arm behind Arthur’s neck again, his hand curling around to hold Arthur’s jaw as he kissed him.

Arthur grasped at the handle again, his voice as thick and rich as chocolate when he groaned. “Eames, fuck, you’re crushing me. T-tighter…”

Eames obeyed without thought. His grip tightened on Arthur’s throat, his muscles flexing with the reach. He was lost in that feeling, of totally enveloping Arthur in every way. More than caging him in, he had Arthur caught like…prey, small and desperate and crumbling under him. He planted his foot firmly on the floor and other on the seat. He squeezed Arthur in his arm and put a bruise on the thigh he held with the other and pounded him, feeling the condom break.

“Oh fuck,” Arthur moaned. “Eames, don’t stop! Keep going.”

Eames growled out a hungry sound, his lust overtaking the thought of what his backseat would look like when they finished, but he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Arthur felt too good on him and the slick from his precome was making the glide that much more obscenely wet, but he was getting closer now. He could feel his release building in the pit of his stomach and boiling.

Arthur’s nails dug into Eames’ back before he reached between them for his cock. It had his t-shirt hem and Eames’ curly hair soaked on his stomach. He rubbed his palm over his weeping head and down his pulsing shaft, his voice ringing in Eames’ ears as he panted into Arthur’s neck.

He could feel Arthur stroking himself. Those knuckles grazed down his stomach, wet with Eames’ sweat when Arthur touched his stretched rim and gripped his balls, tugging them. It made Arthur twitch around him. It was too much.

Eames came, groaning against Arthur’s cheek. His hips bucked in pounding jerks, filling Arthur with his release.

Arthur clutched Eames’ back, his hand stroking himself fast. His tight balls bounced with the pace. “Eames, s-stay—Don’t move.”

Eames kept his hips flush against him as he tensed. They could feel Eames’ come making a mess of them both as Eames still rocked in little shallow thrusts.

Arthur hiccupped, stroking faster, his eyes on Eames now as their foreheads touched. He took Eames’ kisses desperately, chasing after his lips for more and moaning when Eames kissed him deeper. It was new to Eames. He didn’t hide that fact. His kisses were sloppy and full of his teeth and moans but it was what Arthur needed. His own voice grew louder, mixed and muffled with Eames’ when he came.

“Eames, Eames!”

Arthur’s head thudded against the window, his eyes fluttering closed.

He was beautiful to Eames and so fragile in his shuddering and panting. Eames pressed his lips to Arthur's eyelids, feeling those long lashes tickle his lips.

+


	15. Chapter 15

+

 

Eames avoided all thoughts of what must have been his car’s  _ruined_  upholstery until the morning. He rose, once again more refreshed than ever, before Arthur did. He tiptoed past him in the living room, yawning as he made his way through the kitchen to the backdoor. He sighed at the rain and grabbed his coat.

In the car, it was worse than he’d thought. Between the missing button and condom wrapper, the hand prints and smudges on the fogged window, and Arthur’s underwear balled up under the seat, his little, tiny barely-there come stain screamed at him the loudest that he was a terrible person for wanting Arthur and for having fucked him when he knew that it was wrong. Again.

Glaring at that minuscule spot in his rearview mirror, he drove to the local convenience store and searched for a car cleaning solution. He glared at the array of condoms on a shelf for only a heartbeat.

The clerk’s brow rose. “Will this be all for you, sir?” She was quick to brush the box of extra-large condoms into the bag with his stain remover as he frowned deeper, blushing and angry with himself all over again.

+

 

Back home, Arthur was still sleeping. Eames watched him for a moment, and the condensation rolling down the glass of water to the coaster he’d placed on the table. The bottle with the last two pills sat beside it. No point in hoarding it anymore with it near empty.

He felt surprisingly calm letting it go now that the need for bargaining chips was gone from their…  _work_ -relationship, as that was the only relationship they had. Eames had to shake his head at himself for needing to stress that point.

It was then, looking down at himself that he realized he’d stepped outside his house and had driven all the way into town in just a coat, an old shirt, and even older pajama bottoms. He hadn’t even combed his hair.

By the end of his shower, he could hear Arthur rustling and stumbling about from the living room to the kitchen and then the guest bathroom.

Eames listened for a moment until it dawned on him that he was lost staring at his own reflection in the mirror, his…bedraggled, neglected person looking healthy— _healthier_ —underneath the forest growing on his face.

He trimmed it down, the stubble on his neck completely gone after he found his razor. It had been so long since he’d had the urge to spend this much time on himself, but the more he clipped and cut the more satisfied he felt. He barely recognized himself. That was good.

He opened the bathroom door just as Arthur returned from the kitchen with his bowl of cereal.

Eames frowned. “I told you, no food in the living room.”

Arthur stopped short, staring at him. “You look different.”

Eames’ hand shot up to his chin, more than a little self-conscious under Arthur’s sharp eyes. “Good different or bad different?”

He got his answer by Arthur setting his bowl on the table and unzipping his already buttonless pants. 

Eames sputtered. He cleared his throat. “Arthur, wait… We should…”

Arthur paused, his jeans halfway down his legs. His brow arched in silent question. Already his cock was swelling, ready for more play. 

But why stop? Arthur wanted Eames. Eames liked that want and felt the same about him. They had already waltzed right off the cliff twice now, and he  _did_  buy those condoms. So why not give him what he wanted, what he  _also_ wanted?

"Hang on." Eames turned back to his bedroom for the little box and tossed it on the coffee table, earning a impressed and wanton little sigh from Arthur. Eames approached him, surprising himself when he pushed Arthur back onto the couch. Arthur let Eames pull off his jeans, docile, patient with Eames’ fumbling, but his sharp gaze never wavered.

 

Eames didn’t know how to analyze or even label the ways in which pushing into Arthur’s hastily slicked and barely stretched hole turned his world upside down. All these years, he’d been avoiding _this_ act, let alone most company. Why? He had reasons but they seemed so utterly ridiculous with Arthur moaning his name and writhing.

With Arthur’s ankles held firmly in his grip, Arthur’s slender hands stroking his cock and touching Eames’ hairy belly, Arthur looked so small, so breakable underneath him.

“Yeah, Eames, just like that!” Arthur bit his lip, his brow creased as Eames’ fucking quickly became brutal, but still he groaned from deep in his throat. He grabbed a fistful of Eames’ sweater, the forest green color making his skin glow and buried his face in it, keening before his head fell back against the couch.

Eames shifted his hips in a moment of fatigue, the position accidentally—or perhaps blessedly—touching that spot in Arthur that made his eyes roll back under heavy lids. Eames found that spot again and laid claim to it.

+

 

Arthur gripped the couch on his knees and pushed back to meet Eames’ hips, squeezing Eames’ cock every time he shifted his weight.

Eames slid his hand around Arthur’s waist and held him as he thrust, turned on as always by how soft Arthur’s skin was over his lean, flat stomach and the tattooed hip he gripped with his other hand.

The thought of crushing Arthur with his bulk was one that surfaced every time he and Arthur found themselves tangled together with their pants down, waiting Yusuf’s call or distracted from their research as one day passed into another.

This was the second time today already. Eames’ arm around him squeezed just a little bit more at the thought, making Arthur moan.

“Eames,” he gasped, his wild hair falling all around his face as he stroked himself and braced the back of the couch again, “I really like it…when you touch me. Your hands are big. Hot.”

In reply, Eames grabbed his hair and pressed down on Arthur’s back, keeping him arched and plaint as he fucked him harder, reveling that dominance and submission.

Arthur Harris, with his breathy, heavy voice, his words—whether purposefully filthy or just edging the slightest bit toward suggestive—with his clothes ruffled and his back arched deep and his ass shamelessly pushed up for Eames to take him even harder…

Eames wasn’t a man for understating serious things. If Arthur Harris was a drug, then William Eames was an insatiable addict.

+ 

 


	16. Chapter 16

+

 

Eames was beginning to love his long showers in the morning. Exhausted and toweling off, he contemplated slipping back into bed. They weren’t on the same early schedule with Arthur’s medication now run out.

He’d missed his last dose the night before. Arthur'd insisted that he'd felt fine— _better_ , in fact than he normally did.

Adrenaline, perhaps, or a ruse.

Either way, Eames didn’t sleep for a single full hour last night, and from what he could hear, neither did Arthur. Whatever plagued his normal nightmares, they must have battered him last night. He’d been heard tossing and turning and pacing the floor for most of it. The rest, when had Eames peeked in on him, was spent lying on the couch staring at the ceiling with a look of terror that Eames never thought he’d see on the boy.

Which was why Eames found himself shocked to silence when he emerged from his bedroom to find the couch empty. The sheets and quilt were neatly folded and tucked underneath, the television was off for once, and if he himself wasn’t having a psychotic break, there really was breakfast sizzling on the stove. It smelled delicious.

Arthur smiled at him over his shoulder, looking bright and energized as he plated the sausage and turned the stove off. The scrambled eggs were already cooling on the counter. “Morning! I cooked for you. Have a seat.”

Eames had always assumed that Arthur might cook, having lived on his own. It wasn’t the strangest thing, not as strange as Arthur with Eames’ landline phone tucked between his shoulder and his ear.

Eames paused at the table and pointed to his own ear as he sat, mouthing, “Is that Mallorie?”

All the blood in his body drained when Arthur shook his head and mouthed back, “No, your mom. She’s lovely.”

Eames lunged at him and snatched the phone away in a panic. “Mum?”

“William! Where have you been? I’ve been calling you for ages! How—”

He didn’t hear the rest. He covered the phone as he cornered Arthur. “ _What. The. Hell. Are. You. Thinking?”_

Arthur stared back, deadpan. “I let you put your dick in me, several times now, and made you breakfast, and yet, I’m not allowed to answer the phone when your mom calls you for the hundredth time this morning?”

Eames’ shoulders slumped a little when he noticed that Arthur’s ears had reddened with embarrassment.

Arthur dropped his eyes. He tugged on his ear and handed Eames his plate. “Sorry.”

He quickly sat it down before he could drop it. “Arthur, I…”

“No.” He shrugged, his expression controlled. “Makes sense.” He tugged on his ear again and rubbed the back of his neck. “Will you fix me a bowl of cereal while I do more research? Please?”

Eames’ mouth was still open, searching for his words. He nodded quickly. “Yeah… Yeah, sure.” He wanted to apologize, but Arthur was making his way back to the living room before Eames could fumble through his attempt.

“William James Eames,” his mother yelled, “why on earth did you do that? You finally have a nice friend spending time with you—and had I known that sooner, given a single returned call, I wouldn’t have been hanging on the line these last decades that you haven’t been returning my calls—and you treat him so poorly!”

“No, mum, you—” He paused. The truth was on the tip of his tongue, but it was stuck like a tire in mud. He tried, but it couldn’t come out. “You’re right. That-that was rude.”

“So who is he? A colleague? Well, he can’t be, since you and them don’t ever…”

“Nobody.”

“Oh, Eames, you are dreadful at this. He’s not a nobody, he’s… Well he’s there so he must be special, and from the way he talks about you, he sounds quite taken.”

“Mum—”

“And not many can’t put up with my big grouch of a son. Go and apologize and call me back sometime, alright? You know I worry about you, what with that man still out on the loose. It’s good that you have someone.”

He kept the bridge of his nose pinched as he shook his head through the rest of her advice and goodbyes. “I know, I know. Yes, mum, thanks. I love you too…Bye.” He rapped the phone on his forehead, feeling tense and tired.

He made his way to the living room with his breakfast and placed Arthur’s cereal on the table. The television was back on and the folders and notes were spread out everywhere. He sighed. “Arthur, you cannot—”

“I get it.” He took the photos and flashdrive out of Abdullah’s envelop and scattered them on the table. “I crossed the line.”

“You hopped, skipped, and jumped completely over it—”

“ _Eames_. I’m sorry.”

Eames rubbed his forehead. “Well, good, but… That being said, it was wrong for me to… I’m sorry. She’s just…”

“Incredibly important to you,” Arthur sighed. “I get it.”

Eames knew he should stop. The issue was settled but something still nagged at him heavily. The whole thing had him feeling off balance and completely unnerved now, like he’d been asleep and dreaming for days and now he was back in reality. What they'd been doing, how he'd been behaving with Arthur, it was all real now.

He was sleeping with Arthur. He  _loved_  Arthur.

He rubbed his neck. “No, I don’t think you do get it.”

“How is that? What are you going to tell me? That I don’t know how it feels to be protective of a mom?” The edge of anger made his voice tremble. “I get it, I’m a monster!” He laughed bitterly. “Monsters don’t get to live happily ever after, nobody ever saves us, nobody every wonders how  _we_  feel, because we’re not ever even supposed to have any feelings or any ounce of good in us, right? We don’t care about anyone, we don’t even like anyone! Not our parents, not siblings, not the nice lady at the grocery store, not even the people we fuck. Otherwise, you’d actually have to feel guilty for yelling at me. Everybody, flip the fuck out! Because  _I_ , a monster, gave your mother time and attention when you couldn’t be bothered to, knowing that she  _wants_  to talk to you everyday because she loves you. No, I’m the wrong person here, because I’m evil. Of course, _I’m_ wrong! I made her laugh! Someone call the police.”

“Arthur—”

“Yes, Eames, I am a terrible person who has had a disastrous life and who has made horrible choices. No, Eames, I am not the Devil. Actually, maybe I am, because even the Devil himself has feelings. Isn’t that what got him in trouble in the first place? He had the  _wrong_  feelings? Suck my dick, Eames.  _You’re_  a terrible person.”

Eames glared at him, his arms crossed. “And what, exactly, do you feel then, Arthur? What?”

Arthur paused, his face painted with anger as he’d begun to speak but stopped, surprised by Eames’ question. He seemed to have to chase after the answer in his head suddenly, his eyes distracted.

Eames half expected the answer to be ‘nothing.’ He  _needed_ the answer to be nothing, because in his rational mind, and in his panic that he was feeling way too much for him, and because of everything he’d thought he’d always known about people like Arthur, how could a psychopath, a murderer, feel anything? Weren’t Arthur and Eames just playing a game of lust on the couch from time to time—all the time—and nothing more than that? Where were Arthur’s feelings?

Eames turned his back, intent to go to the kitchen, but Arthur’s answer stopped him.

“I don’t know, Eames,” he sighed. “Lonely? Jealous? Upset? Scared? All of the above?”

Arthur said it in a voice far too fragile to come from those lips. Even his eyes were wide as they looked up to Eames, almost as if he was waiting for Eames to invalidate his answer or laugh. “Which… it must sound ridiculous, coming from me, right? Since I’ve been getting picked on and cursed at by nearly everything in your house this morning, and I’m slowly but surely unraveling, and… you obviously still hate me on some level—”

“Arthur, come on—”

“ _But_ ,” he shrugged, adjusting his glasses before he begun to rearrange the photos and pin notes to each cluster, “I do feel awfully lonely sometimes, and I’m jealous because you have everything in the world that’s important: Your mother and her love, and you take it for granted. And I’m upset that after being…near me, working with me all this time, you’d actually think I’d hurt her, and I am scared… because...” He sighed. “Well, I don’t remember why, which is convenient.” He waved his hand at Eames’ quirked brow. “It happens. Whatever my point was, it still… stands.”

Eames stared at Arthur’s downturned face and red ears. What could Eames say? He felt like an idiot now. And didn’t he feel awfully lonely too?

Arthur dropped his eyes, distracted by a loud, flashy commercial on the television. He folded his legs up under him, plucking up a folder from the coffee table.

Eames ducked back into the kitchen to make coffee for himself, but ended up taking down two mugs from the shelf.

They sat in silence for a long time, each in his head, reviewing material, until at last, Arthur spoke.

“When your mom calls in the morning, you should answer. Call her sometimes— _more_ —more often.”

Eames didn’t bother to argue, since Arthur wasn’t even paying attention to him. It would have been so easy to write him off as not even talking to Eames, that he was talking instead to whoever or whatever might have been in his head, but…

“She misses you,” Arthur continued, his placement of photos on the table unusual, careful not to mix them up with the others. “When I spoke to her, she really was so lovely, like the kind of person other people ought to miss more and call everyday.”

Eames nodded slowly even though Arthur didn’t see it. “She seemed to like you. Granted I didn’t tell her who you were… I-I couldn’t. Maybe that’s why I’ve been avoiding her… you know? I never hide anything from her… except you—”

“This is the correct way.” Arthur pointed at the table. “From here to here.” 

Eames sighed, looking up. His eyes tracked Arthur’s pointed finger as he frowned. He sat forward, seeing Arthur’s arrangement of the photos. “What am I looking at?"

"Our first, definite pattern, and it looks worse than we thought it would. All of these here," he said, his hand hovering, "were once employed by the same company to work on several phases of a research project. These here, the reporters, have all had access to these doctors at the same points in time. Now, these here are all the dead. As you can see... it's... sizably larger than the list of the living from these same groups."

He was understating that fact. The pile of photos for the murdered took up all but two photos."

Eames leaned forward, his hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Well, I’ll be damned, Arthur. How did you do that?”

Arthur shrugged, pulling off his glasses. He tugged his ear. “I never forget a face. Names, sure, but once we were able to start connecting more and more of them… This man here?”

"Yeah?"

"I think all of these killings lead up to him. He's not a doctor or reporter, he's a businessman. If he was the one in charge of the project, he could be the most important target yet."

“You're certain we didn't miss him? He's still alive?”

Arthur nodded. “He’s the only one unaccounted for, out of all of the people in all the photos and documents we’ve collected so far.”

“What about Abdullah and that woman?”

“They make three, maybe. Three possible new names on a now very, very small list he could be making up. However, neither of these women are on anything we have, not until Yusuf can connect her, and Macey and Abdullah never led public lives together. She’s off the grid, just like this mystery woman.”

“But one thing’s clear, then, yeah?”

Arthur nodded with him, his hand pressed to the photo with the man’s face.“Yeah. My gut’s telling me he’s next. Whoever he is, wherever he is, that’s where Cobb will be. Still, if you want to be extra cautious," he said as Eames' phone rang on the table, "I'd have Abdullah go on a long vacation with her kids somewhere for an indefinite time. Maybe your old police pals can protect her just in case." He glanced at Eames. "What? Eames?"

Eames didn't hear him at first, shocked to the bone, numb when he ended the call with Yusuf.

Arthur turned to him, frowning. "What happened?"

"A..." He swallowed, feeling like he was second's away from becoming violently ill, "Abdullah's... S-She's dead. She's dead. Oh my God, Arthur..."

"But she wasn't a part of... No one knew who she was or where she was until—"

Eames snapped, then, kicking the table as he stood. "Well, then, I fucking killed her!" He paced, pulling at his hair. "I did this! I brought him straight to her! She's dead! She's dead, Arthur, and I fucking killed her."

+

 


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I've been writing like twenty fics at one time and then home life exploded. T_T

+

 

**Alaska, 40 miles south of Denali State Park — _Sixteen years ago_**

 

Arthur felt as if the little bones in his hands were freezing under his skin and gloves. Martin slowed their small boat’s motor once they neared the barrier of ice still covering most of the Susitna River to the north from Denali. 

He shivered, holding Martin’s big rifle like he was clutching a bat. Tucking himself into a ball around it, he tried his best to hide from the harsh, prickling winds that hit his cheeks and his eyes whenever he dared to look outward at the world of white.

He hated Alaska. Every part of it though he had only been to one place. He missed California, and the warmth, the sun, and Mal’s French mother baking him cookies and teaching him French words. 

Back there, he didn’t have bad people living in his head. No bullies, no headaches, and certainly no nightmares. There, his grandma’s sister used to come to life out old photos and sing to him during rainstorms. Here, there was shouting and shoving and the birds’ eyes all poured red tears and the neighbor’s dog made threats to eat Arthur whenever he was outside, as it liked to eat six-year-old boys who were ‘weird’ a lot more than boys who were normal. 

He wanted to hug Martin’s leg when his father squeezed his shoulder, but all the voices screamed that Martin wouldn’t like that. Here, Martin didn’t seem to like anything or anybody. 

Except hunting, or Martin liked to call it,

“Target practice.” Martin took the rifle and loaded it. “How does moose sound for dinner? I bet you this is one of the only places where folks can get meat this fresh and healthy, huh, buddy?”

Arthur shrugged, silently afraid of the small family of moose hovering on the snowy shore. They were going to cross over. Martin was going to shoot them. Arthur clutched his stomach under his coats, trying to keep it from turning. 

“Yeah, well, there’s not much that Marge hasn’t eaten before. This should be interesting figuring out how to cut and store  _all_  of that meat. We’ll have to pick up a freezer on the way home. You remember how to get back?”

Arthur shrugged again, his eyes stinging as his tears nearly froze. “North is the mountains, west is wrong, east is home, south is the ocean. Dad, please don’t kill them.”

Martin’s frown made Arthur want to cry more. He pointed the gun’s barrel for the tiniest second at Arthur’s head to aim past him at the slowly crossing beasts. 

“Don’t!” Arthur shouted, pushing the gun to the sky, the shot and his shouting spooking the moose.

“Damn it, Arthur!” 

In an instant Arthur’s whole world was ice and water in his lungs, pouring into his clothes, his boots. His muscles seized at once from the shock. He kicked and heard the crunch of ice cracking over him. He screamed, trapped under the sheet as the current took him, but he was able to reach for the bright sun shining through a weaker spot.

He coughed, heaving himself onto the ice sheet. The gun shot’s echo still hovered in the air around him. His heart nearly stopped when he slipped, but he stayed on his stomach, crawling in the direction of Martin’s voice, his gloves pulling and tearing as they stuck to the ice beneath him.

“Arthur!” 

His eyes hurt trying to see. 

Martin was standing in the boat waving his arms. “Get the moose!”

Arthur was shivering so hard he couldn’t process Martin’s words at first, but then as the harsh winds blew again, he understood. 

“I’m c-c-cold!”

“You’ll be fine, buddy! Now buck up and get our moose before the current takes it! There are wolves in these woods!”

His fear of wolves got him moving, painfully and slow, crawling and collapsing, his boots falling into the water again as the ice broke under his legs. The heat of his tears soothed his eyes only a little. He noticed then that he was bleeding, his knuckles and knees red under his torn clothes. Still his trembling arm reached out, his battered hand clutching at an ankle that was much smaller than he thought it’d be.

Martin used the oar to break the ice sheets into small clumps to get the boat closer, circling around to grab Arthur’s hood and pull him in. 

“Hey, hey, buddy, no need to cry. You’ll be fine.”

Martin rushed to get the calf in the boat before he helped Arthur out of his soaked clothes. Bundled in Martin’s big coat, Arthur sobbed as Martin got the boat running again and navigated back through to open water. 

“That was mighty brave, Arthur. I’m proud of you.”

He ducked away from Martin’s hands when they tried to wipe away his tears. “Y-y-y-you k-kicked me i-i-in the-the water?”

Martin recoiled slowly. He frowned. “No. You fell when you pushed at my gun—Which I am admittedly  _not_  too happy about. You could have shot yourself in the face, Arthur. Don’t do that again.”

Arthur shook his head quickly, remembering the force of Martin’s boot and the anger that had driven it to his back where a bruise was now forming. “But, y-y-you—”

“ _Arthur_. Stop it.” Martin smiled then, putting his thick socks on Arthur’s feet. “I’ll have to thaw you out when we get home. Maybe Marge won’t be too mad, since we’re bringing her a moose. Not the one we wanted, but… he’ll do for now.”

Arthur flinched under Martin’s hand when he ruffled his hair and pulled the hood over him. He squeezed his eyes shut and curled into Martin, hiding for a moment from those dead eyes, but he was staring back again, at the dark blood pooling in the bottom of the boat. 

He’d never seen real blood before, not like this. He reached for it. It was hot under his cold hands, but Martin swatted them away.

“Don’t touch that, buddy.” Martin’s chuckle was nervous as he brought a handful of water from the river and washed Arthur’s clean. “What’s the matter with you, huh?”

Arthur curled into him again in answer. He peered under the heavy, wool hood at Martin’s boots, still feeling the bruise on his back. He glanced at the rifle and to the calf again, falling silent as he held his hands, still amazed by the warmth that had covered them. 

++

+

+

 

Arthur massaged his temples, standing as he grimaced at Eames' angry pacing. “Well, at least we can be certain now. You need to call Yusuf back.”

Eames heard none of it. He wanted to put his fists through the wall. “She had a family," he tried to explain. "Those kids just lost their other mother and now they have no one.”

“Eames, focus. Call Yusuf back and tell him what we have. Luck’s on our side, but it may not last long.”

Eames turned on him and snapped. “How is this luck? She’s dead!”

"Exactly!" Arthur grinned, stunning Eames as he waved his hands at the photos. “And now we’re active again. Eames, he doesn’t know how close you are, or else he would have never touched her. He did this to spite you. All this time, we haven’t heard a peep from him and now this? He killed her after she’d already given you everything she had. It was wasteful. But it’s  _his_  mistake, not yours.”

“' _Wasteful_?’ Arthur, she was a person."

"And now she's dead and neither of us can do anything else for her, but you  _can_  save this man. We have to keep going."

Eames stared, unnerved. "Arthur, you… are…” He huffed, sighing as he shook his head and walked away.

Arthur moved to follow him. “Eames, I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not, but I get it. I just… Give me five minutes, okay? I need some air.”

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose hard, grimacing again before he stormed after Eames and caught his wrist.

Eames grunted when his back hit the wall. He expected Arthur to try and distract him with more kisses, but he was surprised when all Arthur did was hug him instead.

Arthur squeezed him, holding him tight as he stumbled against him, seemingly accidentally. He righted himself and took a breath against Eames' neck. “Please don’t fight me again,” he whispered, rubbing circles up and down Eames’ back. “I know she means a lot to you, they  _all_ do, and it’s great that your heart is so big. I wish mine was, but we’re closing in on him, Eames. Okay?” He kissed Eames' cheek like a lover.

His shove, however, wasn’t nearly as gentle or sweet. He gripped Eames’ shoulders and shook him. “Call Yusuf,” he urged. “Repay my old colleague with a  _smart_  move. You can catch him. And you can make her death worth something.”

Eames frowned, but he nodded, massaging his shoulders when Arthur let him go. Arthur was right. All Eames' body wanted was to hide away and sleep, stew in his guilt, and give up, but that wasn't his way of handling things. Arthur wouldn't have been here otherwise. He had been a good detective and a good agent for too long to roll over now. “Let's make some calls, then.”

Arthur tossed Eames the phone. “Finally.”

“ _Arthur_.” He paused, watching Arthur hurry around the coffee table, with a little too much eagerness. 

Throughout Eames’ conversation with Yusuf, Arthur was compartmentalizing, but haphazardly. He stuffed papers back into their envelops with little care for his usual neatness and pushed his photo stacks together, ruining their careful placements and crammed them into Eames’ notebook.

With the coffee table cleared of all except the man’s photograph, he rubbed his forehead with a roughness Eames wasn’t used to either. 

Eames frowned, on hold as Yusuf hacked his computer. “Hey. You alright, Arthur?”

“Yeah!” He waved at Eames over his shoulder as he flopped onto the couch. “Why?” 

“Nothing, I suppose,” he responded slowly, still eyeing Arthur when the boy rose quickly to go to the kitchen to refill his cereal bowl. “Go on, Yusuf.”

Over the phone, Yusuf’s voice was muffled. Eames almost imagined him huddled under his work desk, hiding from Adeyemi. “I think you two might have found the hornet’s nest, so to speak.”

That had Eames’ full attention. “Meaning?”

“Firstly, this guy, Peter Browning, is—”

“Wait he’s like a pharmaceutical powerhouse, isn’t he?”

“He is! I’m still digging, but yeah, he’s pretty big in the industry.  _And_  he’s worked with every one of the doctors I’ve checked so far. On what, I haven’t accessed yet, but if he isn’t Target #1 on Cobb’s list, then  _no one_  is. For long time, his name was attached to a slew of recalled drugs and damage control statements, from one pharmaceutical brand to another, but it looks like he’s been doing rather well the last couple of decades.”

Eames glanced at Arthur. “Does the name Peter Browning ring any bells to you, Arthur?” 

Arthur seemed not to hear him at first. His cereal forgotten, he was rubbing his temples again, looking pained. He shook his head and grimaced. 

“Yusuf, could I call you back—”

Arthur snapped at him. “ _No_!” He took a breath, looking tired then. “Finish. I’m fine.” He sank back against the couch and closed his eyes, tuning Eames out.

Eames huffed. “So, where can we find Mr. Browning?” 

Yusuf’s office chair creaked over the phone. “Normally? San Francisco, with his  _smoking hot_  wife, Mrs. Bianca Browning, but according to these LA Times clippings, he’ll be headed to Wilmington, Delaware alone on Saturday to give a speech at the new fancy pharma lab he's built.”

“Saturday? That’s in two days!”

“Well he’s still in California now? Should I rally the troops to keep him there? Far, far away from,” he lowered his voice, muttering, “ _YouKnowWho_  and his  _WhoKnowWhat_  son?”

Eames waved his hand in the air even though Yusuf couldn’t see it. His heart was already pounding with anticipation. “No, no, no we need him here.”

Yusuf paused. “Ah, isn’t someone more or less trying to end his life, sir?”

Eames considered a few possibilities. He turned to Arthur, but he stilled. 

Arthur looked as if he were melted into couch cushions. He blinked slowly, looking dazed at something beyond the curtains on the opposite wall, his brow furrowing and his jaw tight. 

Eames sighed, turning back. “I have a feeling Cobb isn’t interested in visiting Mr. Browning at home. The only murders that took place away from the public eye were the ones meant to frame Arthur when he escaped. But… I don’t know. I have a feeling that with us looking for Cobb, he’s not going to try his luck flying back across the country when he can hit him right here, right where he’s been picking people off, and in front of an audience.”

“I see… So what’s the plan?—And before you say anything at all about going after Cobb-Harris-Whoever alone?—”

“I… won’t be alone, Yusuf, you know that.” Although, glancing at Arthur again, Eames wasn’t so sure of that himself.

“Him?” Yusuf cursed away from his phone, but Eames heard him clearly. “Sir! What? No! That’s even worse than going alone,” he hissed.

“How? Nobody knows we’re coming. If you send in a caravan of feds and police, Cobb will know at once that we’re on to him and leave forever for the border or something. Arthur and I can go in completely undetected.”

“Sir, not to sound… Isn’t he off of his meds?”

“Yes, and you are supposed to be working on that.”

“I am! Hell, tell him to pick up a few samples off of Browning while you’re getting murdered by Arthur and his daddy when he lures you as his date to the Murder Family Reunion. What is even your plan, in the event that he doesn’t forget that he’s mad at his old man and you two actually catch Cobb and subdue him? Is Arthur Harris really going to let you bring him in too? After all of this?”

“Should we really be having that conversation now, considering?”

“Oh. He’s listening.”

“No, but… Look, it’s neither here nor there.”

“Yet, but in what? Two days, it will be here, and you’ll be floating in a creek, and I will know nothing whatsoever about what happened to you because I was never ever, ever involved in any of this!”

“I have a plan,” Eames lied, “don’t worry.” He studied Arthur for a moment. The boy was still lost in the eyes but he was sitting up, looking more like himself. Eames took the phone call to the kitchen, his voice low. “Any word on a solution to The Problem?” 

Yusuf’s sigh wasn’t overly promising. “The side effects on some of these medications are spectacular. Like one of these, for example, you can’t eat grapefruits if you take it! Eat a grapefruit and your brain shuts down, I suppose. It’s bloody wild, but if we were hoping to find a refill of whatever Arthur was on, we’re out of luck, mate. This drug is quite frankly unobtainable for most mortals and doesn’t even exist as far as every pharmacy in the DMV is concerned.”

Eames sighed, rubbing his forehead. “Alright. Fine, we’ll just keep looking then.”

He ended the call. Back in the living room, he frowned. “Oi. You in there?”

“Yes,” Arthur grit out in a forced sound, still rubbing his temples. Every breath sounded forced. “All this…” He waved his hands around him tiredly before he rubbed his forehead. “My head is splitting.”

“You’re getting worse?”

“It’s fine. Today’s been one hell of a day. That’s all.” He took a deep breath, trying to inflate himself up a bit. “So, Yusuf has information?”

“Yes. We ought to pack.” Eames paused. Arthur didn’t exactly have a wardrobe of clothes with him. “I need to pack us some things. We’ll be in Delaware for the weekend.”

Arthur spoke slowly and swayed on his feet for a second. “What’s in Delaware?”

“Peter Browning. And if my gut’s right, which it… usually has been in the past, Dominic Cobb will be there too.”

Arthur grimaced. “Peter Browning?”

“He sound familiar?”

“Sort of but… I can’t place how. Everything is soup right now.”

“Do you need to take a break?”

“Do I have smoke coming out of my ears yet?”

Eames scowled at that sarcasm before he turned and headed for his bedroom. “Browning’s giving a speech Saturday, at noon,” he explained. “It’s only a few hours drive from here, but if we leave today, we can scope the area and plant ourselves in a good location.”

“‘kay,” he heard Arthur’s muffled voice say. Eames hurried to pluck up his toothbrush and had to take a moment to decide whether or not to pack his shaving kit. Might as well.

It occurred to him then that Yusuf was right. Forgetting Cobb for a moment, there was no plan after the plan. What would happen to Arthur once Cobb was in custody? Would he go willing too?

Would Eames let Arthur go?

Could he?

He traced his hands over the shaving kit and the empty spaces in his bathroom. So much room for sharing the towel rack, the toothbrush holder, the sink counter. His drawers in his bedroom, his wardrobe, the bed itself, would always be half-empty. Loving was... exhilarating and exhausting enough the first time. Like a roller coaster with no safety harnesses. Not a moment of these feelings had been safe or even smart. Or simple. Not a single second for getting lost in Arthur’s stare or for taking long walks with him down the expansive halls of the old libraries and museums Eames loved. No time for finding love notes in his pocket or for hearing Arthur laugh, really laugh, tangled in sheets together on a Sunday morning. Just… raw, directionless, and ill-timed sex. Eames would not possibly do anything so risky as love again, if not for anything else but the danger of it too being so painfully short-lived.

He was scared right out of his thoughts when a loud thud sounded from the living room. “Arthur?”

He rushed out, cursing when he found Arthur unconscious on the floor. “Hey!”

He shook him gently but only Arthur’s eyes fluttered. “Arthur! Hey!” He looked around them. It was a miracle Arthur hadn’t hit anything save for the floor on his way down with how close they were to the coffee table’s edge.

Eames hovered over him, placing Arthur carefully on his back, his chin tilted up. A million nightmares still ran through Eames’ mind as he stroked Arthur’s cheeks. The seconds on the clock only ticked closer and closer to him having to phone for a hospital, but Arthur groaned in Eames’ arms weakly then.

“Arthur?” He sat him up slowly, careful when Arthur groaned.

“’m okay.”

“Bloody liar! We’re on the floor!” He held his tongue when he shouting made Arthur flinch. “You fainted.” Or worse. For all Eames knew, Arthur could have had a seizure right here in his living. It could have been anything. His heart still pounded hard and his hands still shook as he held him.

“Blackout,” Arthur slurred, surprisingly stubborn. “I don’t faint, Eames.”

Eames could have bashed Arthur’s head in. He hugged him instead, his eyes wetting for a moment as how completely Arthur seemed to disappear in his arms, as if he’d used up all of his matter and was only smoke now. He had to catch Arthur and keep him from tumbling head-first into his chest when Arthur couldn’t support himself.

Arthur was green in the face when Eames lifted his chin. He couldn’t seem to get his eyes to lifted long enough to meet Eames’ gaze. “You’re spinning me,” he whispered, in a string of gibberish. He groaned again, closing his eyes. “Stop.”

“Okay, darling. I think you’ve been running on fumes and sugar for too long.”

“I don’t know who Darling is,” Arthur said softly, his hands limp between them. “I’m sorry.”

It unnerved Eames, reminding him of the night when Arthur had first broken into his house looking for a snake. In two days, they could possibly come as close to Cobb as they were going to. It was right there, right before them, but here Arthur was, deteriorating in Eames’ arms.

“Arthur, look at me. Hey?” He held his face, rubbing his cheeks. “I don’t need you to pretend that you’re fine or that you don’t need sleep or breaks or that… our argument before or this case isn’t wearing you—”

“Can I lie down for a while?”

Eames was stunned. “Yeah! Sure. Let’s get you up then.”

Arthur nearly collapsed again on his feet. He dozed in Eames’ arm.

Eames looked around them and down at the couch. He picked Arthur up slowly, surprised by how heavy he was.

Arthur moaned, sinking down onto Eames’ bed. His eyes fluttered again as he unravelled onto his back, stretching out his arms under the pillows and rolled onto the side that was still neatly tucked in.

He was beautiful, and thankfully, mercifully doing nothing more than sleeping now, his breaths slow, but still even and strong. Eames sat at his side, rubbing his back, at a total loss.

+

He closed the door softly behind him, his mind still racing as Arthur slept on.

Eames paced the living room floor, organized their case folders and the pictures neatly again, and paced some more.

He found himself on his back porch as the last of the sun’s light disappeared behind the horizon.

There were a plethora of reasons for why he made the call and even more for why he shouldn’t, but he sat watching the dark waves race along down the river and waited for the call to connect.

“William?” His mother had been sleeping from the raspiness in her voice. “Twice in one day? That’s a record, my darling.”

“It’s…” Eames’ breath tumbled out of him like timber from an overturned truck. He rubbed his mouth, his hand trembling. “It’s… Arthur Harris. The… man you… It was Arthur Harris, mum. I have… made a series of… inescapable and undeniable mistakes the past several days and I really need to tell someone and you are the only person I know I can trust this with… Mum?” 

Her silence scared him to tears. He panicked and nearly ended the call, but it was too late to take it back now. She was speaking now.

"William... okay," she sighed.

"What? No. No, I don't like that tone, mum, why are you not yelling?"

She snorted. "I'll yell if you're pulling a prank on me, and I really and sincerely hope that this is a prank call, even though you don't do that sort of thing."

Eames pinched the bridge of his nose, catching tears as he laughed. "I've been hoping our entire lives were just painfully long pranks. Sooner or later the cameras will come out and we'll both be normal people again. I have a murderer in my house. He's sleeping in my bed and I like that he's there. I like that he could have gone anywhere in the world when he escaped but he's here. He's in my bed, and I want to be there with him, more than anything in the world and there is no one here to tell me not to."

"William, you must take a break, a long holiday, and get yourself healthy. This is madness. You've worked yourself much too hard, darling."

"I honestly thought you'd have more of a reaction than this. You sound awfully calm. Me? Oh I'm bursting at the seams."

"When you've lived the life that I have, not much can really get me going. I am angry. I am livid. This isn't you at all, and those people you work with let you get this far away from yourself and I hate it. I would tell you to send him back at once and that you get on the first plane back home to me, but I know that won't happen. Somehow in this great big universe, you fell in love with an unlovable man."

Eames stood to pace a wide circle in the yard, the grass wet under his feet. "No, mum. It can't possible be that simple."

"And yet it is," she replied solemnly. 

"You're just as mental as I am. Arthur may be the only sane one among us."

"William, you are supposed to be an authority figure. If you can't make a better decision on this, then no one can. Whatever choices you make, you know I will support that."

"Wow. This was a mistake calling you. Goodbye, mum."

"Why ask for my judgment when all you ever do is judge yourself?"

"Because every choice I make affects both you _and_ my sisters. What would they say if they saw me?"

"William, stop. You can't control who your heart attaches itself to. I've been there, I know that well. Do what you like with those feelings. I would never tell you to try to do something I couldn't. What's important, however, is what you do beyond those feelings. You love him. Love him from behind bars where he belongs, my dear."

Eames squeezed at the tension in his shoulders, failing at making it hurt any less. "But it's _wrong_. Tell me it's wrong to feel like this for that man."

"I'm sorry, love, I can't." She sighed. “Darling, I think you just need to—”

“He was my father!” Eames finally snapped. “He killed my sisters! He was your husband and he murdered your daughters! Why doesn’t this ever seem to mean anything to _anyone_ but _me_?!”

“Of course it does,” she snapped back, startling them both with her raised voice. It shook. “Shame on you for saying otherwise, William Eames! However, I will not pour out my flood of pain today, because I have wounds too and my pain is infinite, but I for one cannot live my life buried by it, William. Neither of us can control or fix what your father did. That’s a fact!”

“Mum, I spent my entire life… afraid. I… buried myself in work for years— _running away_ from love and even friendship for fear that I would… I… _I was terrified of becoming you_! Who you were when he lived. I did everything I possibly could to make sure that never happened.”

His mother muffled her sob, but her words were still thick in her throat when she spoke again. “All this pain, all your loneliness, and backbreaking desperation on this never-ending quest to fight all the evil in the world? Darling, our family can’t come back. Nothing we do will bring them back. We have to accept it.”

“I can’t. I couldn’t, _I don’t want to_ , and yet I still betrayed them! I betray them every time I let him touch me—every time _I_ touch him.”

“You must accept that they’re gone and live your live. No person is without mistakes or flaws. This one is yours.”

“What happens if I do, then? If I accept that… If I… let them… go, then I’m still the man _in love_ with a _murderer_.”

“Well, William, then you can be free of the guilt I know you’ve carried all your life. It’s been eating at you. In fact, I think it caused this. You’ve been running for so long, you’ve exhausted yourself and now… He caught you—”

Eames snorted, pinching the bridge of his nose as if it would stop his eyes from blurring. He sat on the docks, every breath bringing a new tightness to his chest. “It’s impossible not to be crushed by guilt. Particularly now.”

“William, you are not guilty of any crime. You are _not_ your father. You didn’t go down the same path he did. That was not your choice. None of this is. You—That man would not be in your house right now if not for your father’s actions. You have to know that. No, you're not your father at all. You never were. You can't possibly ever be him and that's good.”

“Not him… but I am _you_ , aren’t I?”

Her sigh was quiet. “Oh, pumpkin.”

“Dad must be laughing at us wherever he is. You and I attract the best men, don’t we?”

She was silent for a long time before she sighed again. “Call the police. I don't care how it began, I don't care about how long it's been going on.  _End it_ , William, before you get too deep.”

“If I do, his accomplice is free to carry on killing whoever he wants for whoever they’re working for. And Arthur’s… he’s…” He closed his eyes, burying his face in the crook of his arms, as if there was someone out on the riverbanks in the dark who would see and judge him. “Mum, I just don’t know anymore. I _like_ how he makes me feel and what he makes me feel. Things I never imagined feeling. Things that I never thought I deserved to feel. I'm terrified. What will I do when it's all gone and I'm alone all over again?”

“Of course he makes you feel those things. He’s your first… And he’s there.”

“Why did it have to be him? I was so careful my whole life—”

“Because you, for however perfect my boy is, you William Eames are human. None of us can help who we fall for. One day we’re safe and free and then the next day, we can’t breathe without that person next to us.”

“But he’s—”

“Not a good guy, I know, I know.” She groaned quietly in a voice that echoed her hesitance as she formed her words. “Your father… He…”

Her huff came from the phone like loud static. She tried again. “I had to drop you off at school in the morning only to meet with the police to identify,” her voice cracked, “little dead girls’ bodies who looked like your… I had to do this six times in total. There were… so many little girls who looked like _my_ girls, you see. He had killed them all… like they were nothing,” she bit out, “and yet… I… still… sat… in that courtroom and I _believed_ him. My girls were dead and he was so, so incapable of… Well, I think it was maybe a year or so ago? I had been shopping for books online and out of the blue, I see his picture; the one of him standing beside the car the day he bought it for me—You remember that writer who kept trying to break into the house to find whatever he could get his hands on, just to write a more sensational story about John. Well, apparently he’d written a new book and the site was doing a sale. A _sale_ , William. Fifty-percent off on a book about my husband butchering my girls and those others.”

She huffed. “I stared at that picture until the battery in my laptop died. I remember, because I threw up before I could reach the charger plug. I’d looked at that picture and his smile and that memory of that car—before he used it to… do the devil’s work—and I felt extreme, sudden, _shocking_ doubt.”

“Mum—”

“Doubt, William. After all these years. John was _my_ first and John was my soul mate and someday I will probably stumble across another image of him on one of those crime documentary dramas, and he will still be… that man… who murdered our girls… and who fathered you, my William. It’s sick and cruel that people like him exist, that they find us, and make us _think_ that they are lovable and that they love… but they do,” she said, matter-of-factly. “ They do find us and we do love them, for a time until we can break free. Imagine the things you’ll feel with someone who _doesn’t_ have blood on their hands, darling.” She sighed again. “He may be your one true love, but he must atone for what he’s done, my love. You know that. You’re too smart. You know what he’s done and what he could do the second you turn your back.”

“But what if helping is what he’s supposed to do?”

“These people, they don’t change.”

“He knows we may never find his mother, but he’s still bringing me to Cobb—”

She tsked, her sympathy covering Eames like a blanket. “You trust him.”

Eames paused, unprepared. He looked out at the water, feeling raw all over again. 

“Yes,” he answered, even though she hadn’t asked him a question.

+

 


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY THIS IS LATE AGAIN! T_T
> 
> (And apologies in advance for typos! The later half of this--the important bits, of course--hasn't been proofread, but will be later today, because I'm about to collapse into my bed)
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated as always! Enjoy (hopefully without a hurricane of unbeta'd mistakes XC)!

+

 

Eames’ hands were cold on the steering wheel as he drove them out of Solomons early the next morning, the music low, the heat fogging the windows.  

Under the constant sway of the windshield wipers and soft rain, Arthur seemed to come to life more and more every mile they traveled north. 

He stretched and yawned as they reached the bridge. He rubbed his face. “What day is it?”

“Friday. You okay?”

Arthur nodded carefully, his expression flat. “I really like your house.”

Eames glanced over, confused by the comment. “Thanks?” 

“It’s so quiet and relaxed. Stable. Without all that junk you had piling up. I’ve never been able to just sleep down a headache that big before, anywhere else.” 

“Looked like more than a headache, darling. Still does.”

Arthur scowled out of the window, falling silent again as if remembering the day before offended him. 

Eames shrugged internally, his eyes on the road again. They’d both gone through several storms yesterday, but only one of them had ended up unconscious on the floor over it, but if Arthur wanted to pocket his own vulnerability, Eames couldn’t argue with him. In fact, he was envious of that ability. 

His mother called. Arthur was asleep again. Shamefully, Eames didn’t answer. He pulled over at a gas station and hurried through cold drizzle to stop inside, just for an excuse to make him feel less guilty. 

His phone vibrated in his coat pocket as he frowned at the poor state of the baked goods at the counter, waiting for his coffee. It was a voice message from Yusuf that he’d have to listen to once he’d left the noisy store. His frown only deepened when he noticed a missed message that his mother had left him the night before.

“I trust you,” it read, “and know you’ll make the best choice in the end.” 

He was softly smiling as he sent her a quick message back in apology, knowing that Arthur had been right all along. Eames owed his mother much more than missing her phone calls, given all that she’d put up from him over the years. 

“Just the coffee, sir?” 

Eames nodded, hurrying to swipe his card, but he paused, feeling all the blood freeze in his body when he looked at the magazine sitting on top of the pile of candy and donuts from the person behind him. 

On its bright cover, Arthur’s side and front-view mugshots stood together before a target board, a giant question mark looming over his battered images, with the flashy caption in the corner reading, “Black Mamba in the Grass: America’s most wanted goes missing again, FBI unit on case in chaos after Director fires twenty-year veteran.” It was a gut punch. 

“Sir?”

He blinked at the cashier, speechless, but quickly he paid, his hand shaking as he took his coffee back to the car, unable to breathe until the gas station was no longer in sight.

He was startled when Arthur snapped out of his fog abruptly, whatever batteries in his head recharged now. 

“Feeling better?”

Arthur sighed, huffing, but soon he glanced over at Eames. He fumbled irritably with his big coat sleeves. “Better’s not really an adequate way to put how I feel. I…” He frowned down at himself before he shifted in his seat, sitting up straight, his face opening up with a forced grin. “It just happens. Things get too loud on the outside, so things get even louder on the inside. It feels like my brain is a balloon in my head that keeps getting bigger and bigger, and then it pops and all the air is gone. Nothing’s ever really left afterward. Just empty space.”

“And the blackout? Was that normal? How often does that happen?”

“I’m… not sure.” Arthur shook his head slowly, thinking for a moment. “Not often, not since I was little, at least.” He shook out of his wet coat, looking at it and himself before he eyed Eames with a more playful smirk. “Did I wake up this morning?”

“Well,” Eames snorted, still nervous as he checked his rearview mirror for what felt like the millionth time. That smirk gave him little comfort. “I certainly assumed that you did.”

“I dressed myself?”

Eames grimaced, blushing. “More or less.”

“Hopefully less. You don’t touch me enough.” Arthur grabbed the front of the green sweater, _Eames’_ green sweater, the one Eames had worn when rolling around with Arthur on the couch one too many times, that Eames had dressed Arthur in when Arthur was still dragging himself along this morning. Arthur rubbed his face in it, nearly purring at the feel of the soft, knitted cashmere. He slouched in the seat, idly hugging himself, his fingers playing with the sweater’s patterns as he looked at the rain. 

He reached over for Eames. Arthur eyed him with an intense gaze that hid little.

Eames clutched the wheel, feeling Arthur’s hand pet its way up his thigh. “Arthur, stop.” 

Arthur rolled his eyes, still leaning over on him. “I’m not going to pass out on you. Promise.”

“It’s not about that,” Eames snapped, regretting the edge in his voice.

Arthur might as well have been hit, but he was quick to recover. He sat back. “So, tomorrow…?”

“Is something we are in no way prepared for,” Eames answered, eyeing his rearview again. 

“I’m prepared,” Arthur replied after a while. 

“You’re a ragdoll.”

“I’m fine.”

“And you’ll be fine tomorrow?”

“I’ll be tip-top tomorrow.”

“How?”

Arthur sighed, looking away as he pulled off his knitted cap. 

“Put that back on.” Eames glanced at him, seeing Arthur’s expression. “People are looking for you, remember?”

Arthur sank down in the seat and obeyed. “Tomorrow is a routine. Go to the location,” he listed, counting on his fingers, “set up shop, scope, find our target, boom. He’s yours. I do fantastic with routines.”

“And _if_ he finds you first?” Eames didn’t dare to say ‘when.’

Arthur stared at Eames for an uncomfortably long time. His eyes narrowed. “You and he are probably around the same age.”

Eames bristled. “Funny. So he’s got about twenty years of fight in him, over you.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Eames. Age doesn’t do people like me and him very well, given our line of work.” His expression faltered. “He’s getting tired. His submission isn’t an issue,” he muttered, his cheek propped on his hand. 

He was right. Arthur may not have been pulling strings, but it hadn’t been Dominic Cobb’s face on that cover. If anyone should have been afraid, it shouldn’t have been Eames or Arthur. “So long as you’re confident. _But follow my lead tomorrow_.”

“Yes, sir,” Arthur sighed, rubbing his ear. “You betcha.”

A sullen, heavy silence feel between them. A question floated in that space, big and overwhelming and needing to be asked and answered, but as they covered more miles, neither of them were brave enough to give it its voice. 

Eames drove in contemplation then, his head spinning with the case at hand. His mother’s words, Arthur’s words, they had him feeling anxious, but crossing the Maryland border and seeing that magazine made it all too real. 

Screw the question. Eames already knew the answer. Tomorrow, their lives would change forever. The Black Mamba and Dominic Cobb would meet justice and Eames would leave this case, and this… affair alone, and come hell or highwater, he would never look back.

All that lay ahead of them in Delaware, Eames had no other choice but to be ready for it. 

+

 

Eames parked the car, in a nearly vacant lot on a hill overlooking for a laboratory that looked more like a textile factory or a packing plant from the outside. 

Arthur frowned over at him, the smell of alcohol filling the space as the little bottle of hand sanitizer was still uncapped in his hand. “Is that necessary?” 

Eames tossed his napkin in the empty fast food bag once he’d properly finished his burger. He glanced from Arthur to the napkin, huffing as he retrieved it. “Take me through the process. What happens now?”

Arthur sighed, thinking as he looked out at the plant. “Depends on the time and where Browning will be speaking. If out front of this place, we’re dealing with a much wider area to have to find Cobb _and_ one hell of time catching up to him if he gets Browning first with all of these roads and rooftops.”

Eames quickly reread the information on company’s website. “Lucky for us this thing will be indoors, thanks to the weather,” he answered, silencing a call from Yusuf to keep looking for the time. “The local news is said to be covering this during their noon broadcast.” 

“So a quarter after, then. There’s still construction of some kind going on in the back of the building. That’s good. It gives us a way in. We won’t know until we’re inside what the layout is like, but that’s also fine. With Browning having a speech in front of cameras and reporters, the tech folks should have already done their initial setup so finding the spot is easy enough. Normally, this is where I’d stay overnight, if I… planned to take someone out the next day.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Patience? Get here early, and yours is just some random parked car in a row of other parked cars that as far as anyone knows, has always been here. Security firms ‘lack resources’ so you can expect them to show up for a safety sweep an hour or two before an event but not before. They won’t suspect you for a second.”

Eames nodded. “But we’re _not_ staying here?”

Arthur rubbed his ear red. “My… _Cobb_ used to be the most patient person I’ve ever known. He would have been here for a full day or two already, but things changed once we started to make our way east. I think you and your team actually first figured out the pattern because of Cobb’s rushing, his sloppiness. If he sees us now before we see him, he’ll spook, and do something rash again.”

“Figured as much.” He took a deep breath, his hands clutching the steering wheel for a moment. “Arthur—”

He was cut off with a kiss, deep and hard and over with before he knew it. 

Arthur rubbed his ear again, shaking his head. “It was fun, Eames. You’re… a strange and wonderful man, and I had fun.”

“But—”

He was kissed again, longer, but still over far too soon. Arthur caressed his cheeks softly, smiling. “I know. Let’s go get some sleep, okay? You’re meeting my ‘dad’ tomorrow and it’s best that we look presentable and well-rested when that happens.”

+

 

Eames checked into a cheap motel on the edge of town as the early night sky peeked through the heavy cloud cover.

Arthur smiled as they stood at the small dresser and rummaged through the duffle bag together. “You remembered to pack my glasses for me.” He held them to his chest, his expression startlingly open. He leaned over and let his elbow press against Eames’ in a soft, quiet gesture before he removed his sweater and folded it neatly beside the bag. He turned away with Eames’ laptop and sat on the bed’s edge, the screen’s light reflecting on his lenses.

Eames excused himself to go shower as Arthur yawned behind his hand and made himself more comfortable.

Normal. Much too normal, but that was what they’d become at this point. Eames didn’t even flinch when Arthur joined him in the shower’s steam a moment later, easing in behind him to soap his back and plant kisses along his shoulder blades.

Eames wrapped his arm around his waist, pulling Arthur around to see him. He brushed Arthur hair back and memorized his cheekbones, his jaw with his hands as if Arthur would disappear at any moment, his fingertips chasing the streams of soapy water down over his tattoos.

Arthur raked his nails softly over Eames’ stomach and kissed him deeply, leaning into him like a lover. He licked his lips and before Eames could protest, he rinsed off and left him standing there.

Eames touched the fogged glass, seeing Arthur’s blurred form take up a towel and dry himself quickly, taking the steam with him back out into the room, leaving nothing but chilled air to fill the space in the bathroom once he closed the door behind him.

Eames pounded the shower wall but with little force in it, too tired to even let his frustration have its say. He wanted Arthur, as if nothing else in the world existed. If he could get them both in his car and simply drive and only stop once they had reached another world, someplace where they could be together, where neither of them were who they were now…

He pressed his forehead to the wall and let the water run over him. For once, guilt and grief were silent, subdued, and in their place, loneliness crushed him. If he could have lived his life to the very last breath never having known love like this, he’d have been happy. Blissfully happy and content in that ignorance.

Instead, Eames found himself dried and dressed in a t-shirt and boxers and feeling like a fool as he hovered in the bathroom door.

“Arthur?” He smiled nervously, watching Arthur push his glasses back up his nose and stretch on the bed, his tattoo peeking from under his t-shirt and the borrowed boxers.

His eyes raked over Eames. He bit his lip. "Hm?”

Eames shifted his weight, his eyes on Arthur’s long, lean legs. “You alright?”

Arthur smiled sleepily at him. “Just a little tired."

His heart dropped. "Oh. Right. Goodnight, then."

"No, no, no.” Arthur was quick to sit up. He closed the laptop and set it on the bedside table. “I want to stay up with you." He narrowed his eyes when Eames wouldn’t look at him. “What’s on your mind?”

"Well… I was thinking… We could…" Eames blushed, swallowing. Pulling a splinter out of his foot would have been easier than having this conversation. "Arthur," he tried, scratching his stubbled neck and frowning at himself, "I don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow, but I… I don’t want to waste tonight when it’s…”

“Yeah…” Arthur’s shoulders sank. “That’s true.”

“I… I want… I mean…" He tried one last time, knowing he at least wouldn’t sound as stupid as he must have looked to Arthur. “I prepped myself,” he explained, “if you wanted to…”

“Oh? Oh!” Arthur's brow rose. "Y-yeah?”

“Yeah,” he breathed, feeling lightheaded.

Arthur’s slowly forming smile made him even more nervous. “Come here," he whispered, letting his finger play with the band on Eames’ boxers when Eames obeyed. "You deserve a lot more than a motel bed and soft lamplight, and…" He frowned, averting his eyes, his ears red. "And more than someone you can barely trust, Eames. Not me, not when I—"

Eames grabbed his face and kissed him, his hands holding Arthur’s face as Arthur held his arms, until he brought that beautiful, hungered look back to Arthur’s dark brown eyes. In their closeness, he whispered against Arthur’s panting lips, "I want it. I want you."

Arthur's eyes watered and his parted lips shook before he blinked and swallowed, licking his lips. He nodded, a little shy smile creeping onto his face as he took Eames’ hands and squeezed them gently. He pulled Eames down over him. "Well, then… Let’s play, Mr. Eames."

He lifted his hips against Eames’ as he caught his mouth again, letting Eames pull his boxers down his legs.

Eames grunted, surprised to find himself on his back, his boxers missing off the side of the bed, losing his shirt quickly after. He gasped when Arthur striped out of his shirt and covered him, his wet, curling hair falling about his face, his lips pink and kissed red, panting as he ground their hips hard together.

“So you prepped yourself, huh?”

Eames swallowed and nodded quickly, shivering under Arthur’s hands. He watched them sweep through the thick hair on his chest and stomach, his knuckles catching one of his peaked nipples on their way down. “Yeah! They… I suppose this is some sort of a honeymoon suite or…” He couldn’t think to finish with Arthur’s lips on his nipple. He grunted with surprise when Arthur brought his hand down hard on his peck and squeezed it.

But Arthur laughed sweetly at Eames’ scowl. He raked his hair back and rolled his hips, smirking when Eames couldn’t help but buck up against him. “I want to see.”

Eames lifted his head, meaning to protest but Arthur’s hand covered his mouth for a moment before he slid further down Eames’ body. He melted back down on the pillows, wincing at how good it felt to have his cock in Arthur’s mouth. His hands dove into Arthur’s hair, his legs drawing up of their own accord.

Beyond his belly, Arthur nipped at Eames’ balls before licking up what Eames found to be embarrassingly sensitive inner thighs. He huffed out a growl, his legs trying their best to close at that touch but Arthur’s grip on them was strong, demanding when they pushed his legs as wide he could.

His jaw dropped when he felt Arthur kiss his hole and circle it, wetting the soft hair around it before kissing it harder. “Oh, bloody… fuck! We’ve never done that before.”

Arthur plunged his thumb past his rim, frowning no doubt at how tight Eames still was. “You deserve a special kind of pampering.”

He propped himself up on his elbows at once, stuttering as Arthur pushed his tongue inside him and thrust slowly, with a barely-there touch that had his cock leaking down his length and into his thick curls.

Arthur was still smirking as he stroked himself and moved closer on his knees, his gaze pinning Eames down as if he fully intended to devour him tonight.

It was exactly what Eames needed. To have his legs trapped and his wrists pulled to get him flat on his back, to have Arthur’s long length fill him in a firm, demanding push with little preamble, to have Arthur’s eyelids fluttering and his voice a pleased moan.

Arthur rocked his hips slowly, his eyes closing for a moment as he let Eames work through the stretch. His hand rested on Eames’ stomach, his fingertips circling his navel in a gentle touch as his slowly, carefully pulled out.

Eames’ breath caught, feeling the burn, feeling Arthur’s fullness leave him empty before Arthur breached him again, further, deeper this time. He grimaced against the need to let himself grow tense again. It was near indescribable, like having so much heat and pressure up his spine and down his legs, and so different than how it had felt to have Arthur squeezing around his cock, but he breathed, gasping when Arthur shifted his weight, slowly and carefully searching for the very spot in Eames that had always had Arthur’s toes curling and his cock dripping when Eames had done the same.

Arthur watched Eames intently under his lashes. “No one’s ever touched you here.” He splayed his hand more firmly over Eames’ stomach, supporting his light weight on that hand as his cock glided, coaxing Eames’ body to relax more.

Eames panted up at Arthur from the pillows. He shook his head in reply, unable to say more with Arthur’s touches sending tingles up and down his nerves.

Slowly but surely, pleasure bloomed and flourished within Eames with each rock of Arthur’s narrow hips. His nails dug into Eames’ soft flesh. “No one’s ever had the pleasure. It’s all mine,” he sighed, his fingers gripping Eames’ big thighs and dragging down past his navel with only a hint of the red welts he could have left behind with a harsher touch. “Tell me how far you can feel my reach.”

“Oh God, please don’t say such things.”

Arthur thrust harder then, tilting his head as he pulled back. “Why not?”

Eames blushed, his eyes rolling when he felt Arthur’s feather soft touch slip over his cock. He could feel Arthur’s thumb petting the hair over his perineum before it dipped down to touch where his cock stretched Eames’ rim. “Oh god, Arthur, please…” 

Arthur hushed him, his thumb still circling Eames’ perineum as he rocked his hips in a more gentle rhythm again. Eames watched him, overwhelmed by the ecstasy on Arthur’s face when his hips pressed against the full curve of Eames’ ass. Arthur’s eyes cracked open, a little private smile appearing. He eased nearly all the way out, teasing Eames’s body into squeezing after him, fearing that Arthur would leave him hollow, but Arthur sat a little lower, repositioning himself.

He brushed his hair back, giving Eames a lewd, cruel look Eames knew well. “You’re too quiet for me,” was his only whispered warning before his cock slipped back in, its head pressing fully against his prostate as he bucked.

“God!” Eames’ back arched, his head fallen back. 

But Arthur held him down, his lean muscles tightening with the strength he used. “Good,” he purred over Eames' moaning. “You’re awake now.” His hand shot to Eames’ face, holding his jaw. “Open your eyes, Eames. Look at me.”

Eames couldn’t. Every time Arthur’s lazy thrust pressed his cock against that sensitive gland, Eames’ brain rebelled.

So Arthur slid out until they were almost separated again and stopped moving.

Eames fell apart, bruising Arthur’s wrists when he caught them. “Arthur, please. Come on.”

“No.” Arthur flicked his wrists, freeing them. He planted his hands on either side of Eames’ head, leaning over him, close to his face. He brushed Eames’ nose with his own. “Look at me,” he said, softer than before. “I need to know where you are in there.”

Eames opened his eyes. His heart ached, his lashes wet. Wrapping his hands behind his knees, he fought the urge to lower his legs, self-conscious with how he’d been folded nearly in half. His body was bigger, more masculine, yet he was so vulnerable here, so open and exposed. And all around him was Arthur and those dark, sharp, eyes and wild hair. His body twitched, pleading with the glans it still held tight, begging for Arthur to fill the space he’d left, only he couldn’t find the words to voice that need.

Arthur’s shuddering breath tickled Eames’ lips as he rocked forward, lightly grazing Eames’ spot this time, his stare trapping Eames once more.

Eames gasped, the friction sending sparks of pleasure through him. His precome pooled in his navel, wetting the hair on his stomach when Arthur quickened his pace, stroking harder. Still, Eames held Arthur’s gaze, lost in it now.

For as vocal as Arthur was when Eames fucked him, Arthur was silent now, his panting breaths muted, so that the air was filled with nothing but the wet smack and glide from their bodies and Eames’ moans, as if Eames were in a fog of lust all his own, but Arthur was right there, carrying him through it. He smacked Eames' peck again, gritting his teeth as he rocked Eames and the bed against the wall.

Eames fought to hold that stare but he couldn’t, not with the thought of whoever may have been in the room next door hearing the heavy thud and knowing what went on here. His hole gripped Arthur as that thought only had him hotter, sweating in their heat. He bucked his hips and moaned, “Arthur.”

A single sound pushed past Arthur’s lips as he faltered. His brow furrowed, that little shuddering, deep moan flooding Eames’ ears. It took hold of him. He tried to free his hands to touch Arthur, but he couldn’t slip that hold. He bucked again in protest.

Again, it forced another little desperate sound from Arthur’s throat. He nearly sneered, his jaw tight and teeth bared as he thrust harder, his cock filling Eames’ tightness so deep it hurt now under each wave of pleasure Arthur gave him. 

He bucked again when Arthur released his hands suddenly to take hold of Eames’ cock, pumping it roughly, squeezing more thin ropes of precome out over his fist.

And Eames was quick to catch Arthur in return, eager to pinch his hard nipples and feel the sweat covering his soft skin. Under Eames’ worshipful hands, Arthur’s flat stomach and lean, little waist rocked with his hips. He dug bruises into that flesh, making Arthur groan, and reached for Arthur's nape, gripping his hair. Moaning with his hair caught, Arthur let his head fall back as he fucked Eames with less and less control.

Panting now, Arthur threw his weight into the hand propped on Eames’ stomach as the other still jerked his length closer and closer.

“Come on, Eames,” he was teased. “Catch up with me. I’m close, but I’m not leaving you behind.”

His body protested Arthur’s harder hips snaps, but the pain only seemed to make the pleasure boil hotter. It flooded him from head to toe. All Eames could do was melt and hold Arthur until he at last broke, his come erupting over Arthur’s hand and his own stomach and chest, brutal and seemingly unending.

Arthur’s nails raked over Eames’ thigh, leaving marks behind now that all his gentle care was gone. He caught Eames in that stare again, nearly stealing his breath before those eyes fluttered closed. “E… Eames!”

His arms trembled, his fists holding Eames’ pillow and chest as he bucked and pumped, quick to pull out and jerk the last of his release over Eames’ wet belly.

Eames pulled him down over him, holding him tightly as he panted, wishing past the tears in the corners of his eyes that he'd never have to let Arthur go ever again.  

+

 

He was sullen, waking up to Arthur sleeping soundly on his chest, but he was resolved to see the day through, albeit pleasantly sore in places that had him blushing in spite of his sadness.

All around his car, the fog of the morning cloaked the world in white.

Eames’ hands shook as he parked in their same spot from the night before and retrieved his phone. "When should we head inside?"

Arthur frowned out at the fog. All the little bruises and kiss marks on his skin hidden under his heavy coat and Eames' sweater again. He sighed. "The sooner the better."

Eames nodded, staring down at his phone. The battery was dying. “This is it, then." He paused, stunned by the number of messages he'd missed from Yusuf. "You ready?”

Arthur looked out at the fog again and nodded back. “Ready. Wait.”

Eames turned back to him in time to catch Arthur’s kiss. Arthur lingered in it for a long time, kissing him soft and sweetly. He held Eames' face, his eyes searching Eames’. “You trust me?”

“Oh course I—”

He didn’t need to see it. The sound of clicking metal and the cold grip of a handcuff on his wrist told him enough. “—do…”

Senselessly, Eames tugged his wrist but nothing short of the key would free him from the steering wheel.

Cold dread flooded through every atom in his body. He stared at Arthur in disbelief. “Arthur… tell me… this is you having a psychotic break and not what I think it is.”

“Eames—”

“Arthur.”

“Eames, I—”

“ _Arthur_!" He gritted his teeth, trying not to panic. "Get me out of this damn cuff and I will pretend that this did not happen.”

Arthur shook his head slowly, swallowing. “No.”

Eames lashed out in rage but Arthur caught his hand and pressed his lips to Eames’ knuckles. Eames hissed, trying to recoil. “Arthur, we had a deal!”

“No… I’m sorry, but…" He wrestled Eames back again, putting his full force into Eames' submission, making him listen. "Eames," he explained slowly, far, far too calm, "while we both wear the pants in this arrangement, only one of us gets to wear the white hat of goodness and justice in the end, and it’s not me."

Eames struggled again, but Arthur had him caught. "Don't panic, Eames! Look at me. _You're safe_. It's not at all what you think. I would never hurt you, okay? But I can’t let him live.”

“You would fucking give up everything," Eames shouted, seething, " _everything we have_ —for fucking revenge?”

“He took my life away. _I need his_ ," Arthur said, his eyes wild with a predatory fire Eames had never seen before. "And a body is still a body, Eames," he whispered. "You still get to save the day while keeping your hands clean. I win, you win.”

“No, no, no, no, no! We _lose_ , Arthur! If you murder him, we lose! There is no trial with a dead body. No justice for anyone! Least of all you!”

Arthur laughed bitterly. “Blame  _him_  for my lack of faith in the system you love.”

“Arthur, release me.”

"I can't. You don't understand him like I do. Your plan would have never worked."

" _Arthur, listen to me_."

“There are over one dozen different ways to break out of every kind of prison there is. I know every single one of them because  _he_  taught them to me. He drilled them in my head one by one.  _He taught me._  Martin Harris, your Dominic Cobb taught me; the man who used to describe to me the ways he murdered people while we were out in the forest hunting rabbits, Eames. He is the one who screwed up my mind to the point where there is no part of me that can see him as anything other than my last game. You arrest him, he breaks out, he kills me, _he_   _butchers_   _you_ , because at the end of today, there will only be one person that he’ll hate more than me. You, because you, the white knight of justice,  _inconvenienced_  him with a swarm of police and a jail cell for however long it takes for him to find the one hole in the fabric he needs to rip it open. He will be back on the streets and he will kill you and if I’m still in jail myself when that happens?" He sneered before shaking his head. "No. Let me do this, Eames. Let me do it right, so you can have your justice and I can have mine.”

Eames panted, grabbing Arthur's coat collar the moment Arthur ease his grip. “Arthur," he roared, "I swear to God! I will  _never_ —”

“Then I have to keep you out of my way!” Arthur’s voice broke. He twisted Eames' wrist until Eames had no choice but to let him go or risk his bones breaking. Arthur sobbed before looking out at the fog. “I can end him right now. All of the killings will stop _today_. Today, Eames! He’s right in there, I know he is! Please, Eames, just let me end this for good—”

“Arthur, no, listen! You don’t have to be that person anymore. You can make a choice. I know you can! Uncuff me!”

Arthur’s eyes watered. He quickly wiped away his tears, but still one escaped down his cheek. He clenched his jaw, glaring out at the fog. “I choose not to have to live beyond today  _afraid of him_ , Eames. I’m not going to spend one more day, secretly terrified that he’ll find me first and…” He swallowed, forcing his emotions down, shaking with the force. “I’m sorry.”

“Arthur!” Eames sobbed, yanking hard against the cuff. “I will see you _rot_ in prison!”

Arthur shivered, his hands balling into fists but he forced them open, forcing calm even as he locked Eames in a threatening stare. “I can take my chance with that. Forgive me, don't forgive me, it's your choice and you get to _live_ a very, very long life with that choice, safe, because of _my_ choice.” Before Eames could respond, Arthur reached for him and kissed him hard. He moved back quickly, catching Eames' fist and blocking his punch.

He forced a smile. “Good bye, Eames.”

"Arthur, no! Arthur, come back right now!" 

It was too late. Eames struggled desperately, but Arthur was already out of the car and walking, not once looking back before he was swallowed by the fog blanketing the parking lot. 

+

 

++

 


	19. Chapter 19

 

**Part Three**

*****

 

There are no bargains  
between lions and men. I will  
kill you and eat you raw.

― Madeline Miller,  _the Song of Achilles_

++

+

 

There was a riot in Arthur’s head. So loud, the chaos drowned out Eames’ muffled shouting and cursing from the car with their own assault. He could feel himself in there getting pushed and squeezed into a tight corner and nearly trampled. 

On and on, they rambled and screamed as he made his way through the parking lot, stumbling on the shifting, crumbling asphalt. The white, painted lines slithered and the yellow bumpers rolled here and there, but he kept moving, touching every light pole he passed to ground himself in the real, tangible world. 

Even in the winter, with the fog wetting his skin and hair, making him cold under Eames’ coat, the concrete loading dock was burning hot to touch when he gripped the edge and hopped up, mindful of the male voices he heard. If they were from real men, if they were in his way, he’d hate to cut them down, but he was ready to do whatever it took to get to Dominic Cobb. 

Inside, he raced up trembling stairs and shouldered open the door to the first floor. He squinted at the harsh lights that lined the ceilings, down long polished corridors and past rows and rows of empty glassed-in cubicle spaces as the patterns in the new carpets spun and the marble prints on the tiles bounced off one another like old arcade games.

It was a while before he found the space for Browning’s speech. He came to the side doors and only peered through the little glass window in them, hesitating with his hand on the doorknob as he paused.

Like a vacant warehouse, massive air ducts hovered over long channels of rafters that covered the high ceiling. The day’s muted light shined through a wall of windows. The space was void of the offices and labs he’d passed. Rows and rows of white chairs filled the polished floor, all arranged in front of a temporary stage and podium. 

He made his way to the utility stairs lining the far wall, his heart pounding.

+

 

Eames stared at his cuffed wrist for a long moment, the metal rattling with the faintest sound as he shook in his anger. 

Betrayed. Feeling it’s coldness seep under his skin and into his bone marrow. Arthur was nowhere to be seen. 

Escaping wasn’t the issue. Nine years ago, he’d been held captive in the trunk of a mad woman with a wounded Adeyemi bound with him. He knew how to pick the lock, he _could_ and _would_ pick this lock and… what then? 

Would he enter the building to find Cobb’s body and Arthur standing over it with a smoking gun? Would he only find Cobb’s body alone, and Arthur long gone?

Or maybe, more truthfully, would they both be alive and well, waiting for him, or would they both be gone off to resume their killing spree?

It was a fear that wounded him to his core, but one that he was all too familiar with. He wasn’t nine now, however. His anger wasn’t lost in the hands of the law. He _was_ the law, and whether Arthur went willingly or even if he were in fact, held captive to Cobb’s influence, Eames was prepared to keep his promises.

Even as the cold outside chilled the car, he still sweat in his efforts to keep the pick precise, failing and starting over, again and again. 

He paused for a moment, closing his eyes as he tried to ground himself and relax. Already cars began to arrive in the parking lot of the plant. he was running out of a time and the longer he let his anger sway him, the longer it would take to make this work. 

He held his breath, willing his hands not to shake. He recounted the steps, slow and careful until at last he heard the final click. He pocketed the cuffs and hurried out into the drizzle, his gun held firmly in his fist.

+

 

Arthur stepped over a path of shell casings, gun parts, and little animal bones, over pages torn from his favorite childhood books, and snow that was pink with blood. Martin always left such trails for Arthur after a long separation. He knew they weren’t real, but they felt real, sounded real clinking together and sliding when the bones crunched underfoot. 

He followed it upward, higher and higher. He had to give the man credit. Shooting a target from the ceiling of the very same building was more than bold, it was outright suicide for anyone who couldn’t pull it off. 

From the rafters lining the ceiling corners, the floor space looked bottomless. He traced his fingertips over the railings, disoriented as he walked over the metal grates when all the madness in his head went quiet so suddenly. He paused, taking one deep breath after another. 

He could hear what he needed to now, the soft shifts and thuds coming from the air duct tubes. 

As he approached, the scattering of little tokens from his memory grew more and more scarce. He pushed the rest aside with his shoe until he could stand near and watch the duct panel’s removal. 

Martin lowered himself to the rafter. Arthur blinked, and a wolf watched him. He blinked again and there Martin stood before him, looking weathered but as cleanshaven as he always was, his coat and boots sparkling with little rain drops.

He was slow in his movements, eyeing Arthur with a guarded look as he lowered his gear from the panel. “You always know where to find me, huh buddy.”

Arthur huffed, his stomach feeling as if it were filled with fishing hooks. “You… were… one hell of a teacher.”

Martin released a heavy breath, taking on a fond expression Arthur knew well, one that he had missed. 

Arthur closed the space between them, hugging him tightly.

“Surprised it took so long,” Martin teased, squeezing Arthur’s arms. He looked so… familiar… and so warm and so comfortable, here in their element as if nothing had happened. 

“You put me in jail.” Arthur crouched with him, digging in Martin’s bag to hand him the rifle parts. 

Martin paused assembling the gun. He grimaced, squinting but his eyes were still as bright. “I didn’t have a choice. Things were getting a little hectic. I knew you could handle yourself.” He check the scope. “And you’ve been handling yourself well, I hope?” He glanced over, taking a moment to study Arthur more closely. “Are you out of your medication again?”

Arthur nodded curtly, relieved when Martin took out his phone and texted Margret. “How is she? Any better?”

Martin shook his head. “Worse. The insurance isn’t coming through for us anymore, so we’re exploring our options with more… ‘lucrative’ companies. She’ll be okay, though,” he quickly assured Arthur at his open worry, reaching out to rub his shoulder. “We’re almost done. This’ll be a tough one, buddy. I don’t have to tell you that, but I’m glad we get to finish this together.”

“Browning’s the last hit?”

Martin snorted. “He should have been the first and only, to tell you the truth, but… you know me, Arthur. I was greedy. Too damn greedy,” he muttered, frowning at himself. “So, here we are.” He smiled. “You want to do the honors, Mr. Black Mamba, or just cover me?”

Arthur blushed, looking away. His hands reached forward, but he paused. They itched to pick up a rifle again and grip it close and feel its power. He had grown into a man wrestling with that weapon and he was damn good with it now… It glowed with a warmth he’d missed as blood bubbled up around them through the gaps in the grates and trickled down over the rafter’s edge. His mind buzzed with eagerness and excitement. He shook his head. “Do it. I’ll cover you.” 

“You’re sure?” At Arthur’s nodded, Martin shrugged, and reached for his boot.

Arthur took the handgun Martin gave him, quick to check the bullets in the magazine. His mind rebelled, but he gritted his teeth and ignored their protests.

As Martin lay on his stomach to check the rifle’s positioning, Arthur rose to his feet, his eyes locked on Martin’s head. He raised the gun as a few people began to mill about on the ground floor in front of the podium, aiming it at them before he raised it higher, towards the other rafters. 

Already, Arthur could feel the heat of his anger boiling through his blood, melting his heart. 

“Dominic Cobb,” he whispered, the hooks in his stomach pulling painfully then, when Martin glanced up at the name.

Arthur’s shot hit the water sprinkler dead-on, setting it off. The people screamed at the startling sound, all scrambling for the door as the sprinkler showered the podium, drenching it. 

He pointed the gun at Martin’s stunned face and kicked the rifle off the rafter.

Cobb sat back, shaking his head. “You have no idea what you just did.”

“You put me in jail,” Arthur whispered, shaking with his rage now. “You let the whole world see my face and you just… kept on hiding and making it _worse_ for me, like you’ve always done.”

Cobb held up his hands, slowly standing. “Arthur, you don’t know anything. You have no idea at all what I’ve had to do, for our family.”

“You _used_ me,” Arthur whispered, as the sound of angry hornets filled his head. “You controlled me and you put me in front of you to take _your_ fall.”

Cobb shook his head as he laughed, getting angry now. “You always did have your _stories_ , Arthur.” He lowered his hands and stepped closer. “Always a different tale to spin whenever you got yourself in trouble and needed me to dig you out.” 

The eager buzzing in Arthur’s head ceased at that attack, and in its place, each and every presence within him, around him, roared with their anger, only bolstering his own rage to at last explode.

"Liar!" His trembling growl echoed through the rafters, peeling paint and cracking through metal and plaster. 

Cobb nearly crushed Arthur's wrist when he lounged to knock the gun from him, but it was useless. For all the wolf in Martin, Arthur's rage was its own breed of predator, its own force of nature. It kept his grip tight and the elbow he struck Cobb's cheek with nearly broke the man's jaw. 

Cobb grunted and stumbled back. He reached for the railing behind him and charged again, this time tackling Arthur to the ground.

Arthur fired at the wolf's snapping teeth, but missed as his head was slammed back into the metal grate. 

All around him the world was black and still, as if time itself had stopped. He woke with the wind knocked out of him, the gun out of reach nearby. Cobb had him on his feet, a hand bruising his arm, the other pulling him by the back of his neck. He was pinned halfway over the railing and held there, his vision swirling as the faraway ground below beckoned for Cobb to toss him down and kill him. 

"Arthur, listen to me! I don’t want to fight you, but I will if you don’t listen to reason!" 

"You can’t trick me anymore! I know the truth! You took me from my parents and changed me!" 

Cobb froze over him. "No," he sighed. "Who told you that?”

“Fuck you!” Arthur struggled harder but he stumbled. He’d been distracted by the sound of footsteps but he saw a sign near the soaking podium of a medical charity he knew well. One of _Margret’s_ many charities, that she ran all over the country. The biggest sponsor of this event, according to that sign. 

“Arthur, no,” Cobb was saying with ragged breaths. “It's… it's not what you think. Whoever told you those lies is your real enemy. Not me. You have to believe that!" 

Arthur went limp then but only long enough for Cobb to think the fight had left him. He threw his head back hard, breaking Cobb's nose. They clattered to the floor. Arthur rolled, reaching for the gun but Cobb wrestled him back down. 

"Arthur, stop it! You have to trust me!"

Arthur surged forward choking Cobb as he gritted his teeth, panting, "You've warped my mind enough." 

A shot rang out, ricocheting off of the rafters. Arthur groaned as his arm bled and lost its hold.

"Arthur!"

 

Eames heard the shot ring out in the empty space, his heart freezing for a moment. He raced up the stairs, seeing blood drip down from the rafters.

Above him, he could hear Cobb’s shouting and the chilling sound of a man choking before silence. He aimed his gun, shouting, "Arthur!" 

He was startled, nearly falling down backwards when Cobb leapt down with blood staining his mouth and collar and boxed Eames the moment Eames pulled the trigger, sending the bullet into the ceiling.

Cobb struck lightning quick, his fist striking Eames' stomach with the force of an iron. Eames collapsed over him and found himself wrestling for his own gun now pointed at his chest. He gripped Cobb's hand and the barrel, turning it as he swung and hit the man over and over, but Cobb was even more relentless. He understood Arthur's words now. Cobb's eyes alone glared with the passion of a madman who would suffer death before letting anyone take the upperhand from him. 

Cobb grabbed Eames’ arms with the same brazen lack of care Arthur had always shown when met with a loaded gun and swung Eames against the railing, nearly sending them both over the side. He kneed Eames’ gut, at last freeing the gun to Eames’ dismay. 

Eames grunted at the force of Cobb’s kick and lost his balance, tumbling backwards down the stairs, feeling as if he hit every step and every railing on the way down. 

Everything hurt. His vision filtered in and out, growing fuzzy and tilted.

And above him, halfway up that flight, Cobb loomed, so much like the Black Mamba on that first night, as Cobb raised Eames’ gun. 

He stared at his own barrel as his vision went black.

 

Arthur could feel how hot his blood was, soaking through his shirt and coat sleeve under the throbbing wound, sticking to his skin like oil, his other hand trembling as he kept Cobb’s gun pointed the moment he saw what the man intended to do to Eames. “Stop.”

Cobb shook his head. “I told you not to trust them, Arthur. Is he the one who’s been feeding your mind with…” 

Arthur let his barrel touched the back of Cobb’s neck. “I said stop,” he gritted out, panting.

“You wouldn’t kill me, kid. We’re _family_. Let him live and he’ll kill us both.”

Arthur laughed, enjoying for a moment the mingled sound of it echoing in the space and Cobb’s clear desperation. He jabbed the gun harder when Cobb’s aim became more determined. “I don’t… know you… Dominic Cobb. I don’t know you, or that woman you’ve got hidden away, but I know _him_ , and I know that whether I pull this trigger and paint these walls, _he lives_. Just give up.”

Cobb scowled, seething as he shook his head. “I worked too hard, to let him _or_ a little brat like you screw this up, Arthur.”

“Fine,” he grinned. “Kill him. Do it. Then I’ll kill you, and I’ll text Margret back and I’ll find her, Cobb. I will kill her with my bare hands and eat her blood in your memory.”

Cobb snapped. “Like hell you will!” Before he quieted, turning his head back a little to whisper his taunts at Arthur. “You love her.”

“I won’t love anybody when he’s dead, and as always, it will have been your doing. You, ‘Martin,’ have already killed everyone I could have loved. Everyone, even… him… so… What’s one more? And don’t worry. She won’t go out quietly. I’ll make sure, just for you, that Mallorie Cobb, whom I _have_ loved _dearly_ , will die after days of screaming and crying out for you, knowing exactly why you can’t save her. She’ll ache until her teeth break, _for you_.” 

Cobb roared, swinging back at Arthur with all he had, and Arthur was ready, grabbing Cobb’s wrist and twisting it until he heard the satisfying snap of the bone breaking. He elbowed him under the jaw, sending Cobb tumbling down after Eames.

Arthur descended the stairs quickly, stopping to reach for Cobb’s fallen gun.

A bullet ricocheted off the railing just over his head. He stumbled back, taking cover higher up the second he saw the hulking figure near the podium take another shot at him, narrowly missing as the rafter was hit again. 

It was over in an instant. 

Arthur sat on the step where he’d fallen, shocked still for a moment, unable to breathe in utter disbelief that his mind had turned on him so savagely. 

No one was there. He clutched at the railings looking for an sign of damage but there was none.

And to his horror, Dominic Cobb was gone. 

+

 


	20. Chapter 20

 

+

 

Eames groaned, turning on a cushioned surface. 

He was moving, or sliding perhaps, his head swimming and bouncing in his skull every turn and short stop. 

“Fuck!” Quickly, he tried to push himself up in his seat before he could crash his car, only, he wasn’t driving.

He blinked over at Arthur the moment he felt that hand reach over to still him. It quickly left him, returning back to the steering wheel. He sat up more, rubbing his head and feeling himself out for anything bruised or broken, relieved that he wasn’t bleeding or worse off after his fall. 

His punch came out randomly and uncoordinated but Eames was still satisfied when his fist connected with Arthur’s already bruised jaw, his teeth clicking and the car swerving, even as it made Eames’ head swim more.

Arthur righted the car again, his jaw tight as he checked the rearview mirror and drove faster. “You’re feeling well," he muttered with forced cheer through his teeth. "Great.”

“Pull over and get out of my car, you son of a bitch.”

Arthur’s teeth shined red with blood as he smiled, his eyes still bouncing from the road ahead to the mirrors, even as he flexed his bruised hands--a sign of pain or a sign that he was boiling with anger.

Eames in his drowsiness couldn’t care less either way. Arthur's presence, so normal and good now, even after what he'd done, it infuriated him. They'd had one chance, one solid, clear chance, and Arthur blew it. Arthur had blown the entire case. He balled his fist, intent to try for a harder punch, until he noticed Arthur’s trembling, and more pointedly how he only drove with one hand, his other tucked protectively around his ribs. It was covered in blood under his sweater's sleeve.

Eames tried not to let his panic blind him. “Where is Cobb? Is he dead?”

Arthur huffed, eyeing the mirrors again. “He could have easily been.”

“ _But_?”

“I got a little distracted. Why didn’t you stay where I’d left you, Eames? You were safe, your hands were clean. He was going to kill you. Right there.”

“What the hell do I look like, Arthur? A bloody lightweight? We were a _team_. We would have had him.” He tried to scowl when Arthur glared over at him, but his eyelids were getting heavy again. "Together."

“He was going to kill you," Arthur repeated, as if he'd heard nothing that Eames had said. " _Shocking_ , I know.” 

“I’m alive! Is he?”

Arthur breathed sharply before cutting through more traffic. He clenched his jaw again. “Go to sleep, Eames. I might need to stop at some point and I need you rested enough to take over.”

“Fuck off,” Eames muttered, already sluggish again as Arthur took them on the shoulder of the highway, kicking up dust and rocks, to avoid a slower path of traffic. Eames groaned and clutched his head. 

“Suit yourself,” Arthur gritted out, pained when he switched hands, getting blood on the wheel. His good hand reached for Eames, poking at his neck, pressing hard. 

+

 

Eames woke suddenly when Arthur dumped them both on the couch with a grunt and rolled off of him.

He squinted when Arthur crawled away to turn the lamps on. “I hate you, Arthur, you know that.” He sat up with a wince, glaring as Arthur stood on shaky legs and hurried to check Eames over.

"You should rest more, and think about a long soak for those bruises, Eames." Arthur shook off his borrowed coat with the utmost care, startling Eames when he whimpered, peeling off his bloody shirt and sweater.

Arthur sighed, his shoulders still tight as he held the ruined green sweater in his hands. "I really, really like this sweater." He stumbled away to run water in the guest bathtub to soak it with the coat.

He returned with Eames’ first aid kit and sat gingerly on the coffee table. He took an odd moment just to breathe and look around him, in a manner not much different than when Eames would come home after a long trip for a hard case. He tried to glance behind him at Eames, but winced, holding his side again. “Sorry about putting you to sleep earlier.”

Eames sighed like a bull and with as much amusement, his head still pounding and his voice rough. “ _No problem_.” 

Under the blood Arthur cleaned away, he didn’t look too bad off at first. He’d been grazed twice, once shallow on his arm, the other deeper on his side, hitting the tattooed snake at an awkward angle. 

Eames wondered for a moment if his own bullet had done that by accident. And for a moment, he liked how completely guiltless he felt at the hope that it was, considering that even though this was all Arthur's fault, those grazes were really the only wounds on Arthur when everything on Eames was hurt in comparison. 

So Arthur was a decent fighter, and Eames didn’t do well on a flight of stairs up against a veteran assassin. He could live with that, and after nursing his pride, he could be proud that Arthur had least destroyed Cobb's nose. It would slow the man down, but how long, only Arthur knew. 

He put the question on hold, however, when Arthur left and returned once more with Eames’ mending needle and thread for clothes. He cringed internally. “Ah, isn’t that a little big, Arthur?”

“It’ll do the job,” Arthur muttered, his voice clipped and forced out as he trembled harder. He dipped the thread and needle into the bottle of peroxide. 

"As much as I would _love_ to watch you get hurt right now, I still have to tell you, Arthur, you're doing this all wrong." Eames grimaced for him when Arthur pierced his skin.

Arthur shouted out a curse, but quickly composed himself. "I was shot," he gritted back, blinking away tears stubbornly. "I can't do much better with one hand. It still works fine. Go lie down, Eames."

"Jesus Christ," Eames winced, cringing away. Without thinking, he moved from the couch and sat behind Arthur, wrapping an arm around him. "Stop, stop, stop."

Arthur froze. He eyed Eames with an odd expression when Eames plucked the needle from his fingers. He shook his head. “Eames, you don’t have to hel—” He gripped Eames’ arm, his breath catching. He huffed, panting even as he still held Eames’ arm tight. “Oh, right… I see," he grunted. "You don't just want payback… You want to do it yourself… right?”

Eames paused. He hadn’t even considered it. “Oh, piss off and be quiet, boy. My mother’s right, you know? I _am_ too bloody nice. I should be stitching 'Fuck you, Arthur, I told you so,' all over your stupid face right now, but oh no." He glared when Arthur squirmed hard against him. "Your pain tolerance is piss poor, Mr. Harris.” 

Arthur laughed against Eames’ arm where he’d burrowed himself, now turned almost completely away from the needle. He moaned, digging bruises in Eames’s arm. “This isn’t the kind of pain I prefer, Mr. Eames. You of all people should know that.”

Eames had to pause again until Arthur took his teeth out of his arm. Arthur burrowed deeper, whining long and deep when Eames' angle changed.

“But… I won’t apologize, Eames. I did… I did what I needed to."

“And it went spectacularly, didn’t it?” Eames winced when he pierced Arthur too deep and had to redo the line. Arthur’s sob didn’t make him feel as good as he’d hope it would. It was a little, pitiful sound that had Eames rubbing his stomach when he should have been punching it. 

"You should have listened, Eames. I d-didn't want you to get hurt.”

"You were selfish. That's all." He had to wrestle Arthur out of his tangle when he was done and manhandled him into his lap for a better position to stitch the graze on his rib. "And arrogant." He let Arthur wrap around his arm again and hold him, his head lying on Eames’ shoulder. He sighed, his anger falling flat. "If I had listened to you, you'd have been shot dead, Arthur. You're the one who can barely stand right now, not me. Did that not ever occur to you?"

“Speak for yourself. I thought… I thought you were dead at the bottom of those stairs. You wouldn’t wake up. I thought… My mind was a mess. It still is, even though you’re sitting right here and you’re not dead. You're not dead.” 

Eames hushed him, squirming when Arthur gripped him too tight. He had a feeling it had little to do with Arthur’s pain. “Well, I’m here. And I won’t ever forgive you for what you did.”

They were quiet for a long time with Arthur still squirming and Eames’ hurts throbbing, but he finished quickly. He was still touching the tattooed skin around the wound when Arthur pulled away to bandage himself. 

Arthur looked down at the blood under his nails. “He’ll come after you now,” he whispered. “He will come directly for you. The second he knows where we are, the second he gets an opportunity to take me down, he will…” He nodded at the floor, taking on a far away look in his eyes. “I have seen the face he’s hidden underneath Martin’s. Dominic Cobb is real and he is not my father and he no longer has to go on pretending that I am his flesh and blood…” 

A million thoughts raced in Eames’ mind as he grimaced, bending down to take off his shoes, his back complaining, as he still listened to Arthur ramble to himself. He watched Arthur stand and sway and walk, talking softly, to the dufflebag by the door. He took another of Eames’ sweaters out and carefully pulled it over his head and his arms through. He sat back down beside Eames and hugged himself, quiet now.

Eames had to catch himself, in surprise at the thought of wanting so badly to rip the sweater off of him and take back everything he’d ever given him. His home, his food, his clothes… his body. He took a deep breath, feeling the bruises on his ribs throb even more. 

He glared at Arthur as he found his voice. It was near unrecognizable in his emotion. “What happened, Arthur?”

Arthur’s back was still turned, the distance between them much farther than the coffee table itself. “Y-you don’t remember?” He looked at Eames with clear concern and reached for him, trying to see his eyes closer, misunderstanding and searching for a sign of concussion.

Eames pushed his hands away and sat further back, his hips screaming in soreness. “No, Arthur. I know what you did and I know how it turned out, but that doesn’t explain at all what happened. _What happened to us_ , Arthur? Our agreements, our teamwork, our _progress_. You gave up on everything the very second the door was open, as if none of it meant anything, as if finding your mother means nothing, as if you had no faith at all in me, and yet here I sit still unable to comprehend any of this or when things changed for you! What happened to—”

“I made a mistake,” Arthur whispered, turning his back again, “a big one. I get that now.”

“Yeah! You sure as hell made a _huge_ mistake today that could have killed us—”

“Not today.”

Eames' brow rose. “Oh no? When, then?”

Arthur took a breath and rose to his feet, rubbing his ear. He waved at something to his side as if he were arguing with someone, when he still had yet to say an actual word. He glanced at Eames then, blushing and scowling. He tugging his ear again and nodded. “I need to leave. Now.” 

Eames stood slowly, stunned as Arthur moved about, looking for something. “Are you mad? You were shot, Arthur.”

“It’s okay.”

“No. Out of the question.”

“I’m not asking.”

“You thought I was kidding before when you tried this? You honestly think I’m going to let you just disappear?”

“No,” Arthur muttered after a while, headed towards the bathroom. “But that’s my fault. You don’t have a choice but to call the police, and please call them. Don’t go out alone, it’s not safe.” He returned with a gun, pale and looking more than a little distressed at the dwindling number of bullets in the magazine. “I—Eames, don’t,” he warned, his hand raised protectively, the other pausing as he’d been tucking the gun in his belt. His eyes were wild and his tone danced back and forth before threatened and threatening. “This is Cobb’s gun. I put yours on the kitchen table. You won’t be missing this one.” 

Eames was at a loss. He reached for him carefully. “ _Arthur_ , you’ve been shot. You’re not thinking clearly. You... you can’t possibly—”

Arthur flinched back when Eames stepped forward again, his voice startlingly scared. “Don’t fight me, Eames, I can’t handle that right now, not from you! Please.”

Eames could barely contain himself, overwhelmed. His hands rose, squeezing the air in front of Arthur. “I could _scream_! I could lose _my_ mind over you, boy! You come into my life and for a split second, you become this different person and you fucking use me and disappear again when it’s convenient for you, after you ruined this case!”

Arthur shook his head, still inching away. “No. I didn’t. I didn’t use you.”

“Oh, come on, Arthur,” Eames spat, “ _you_ stop pretending! The shirt on your back is more important to you than I am! _What happened, Arthur_? Or has it always been like this and I was too fucking stupid to get a clue before you had to spell out to me today?” He jabbed his finger at Arthur’s chest, whose back was pressed tight to the wall. “I trusted you!” He grabbed Arthur’s face, willing him to listen and look him in the eyes. “I _loved_ you!”

Arthur broke free and put more space between them. He covered his face, grimacing. “Damn it.”

All the fire was gone from Eames with his words dragging along behind Arthur’s feet, trampled. He squeezed his eyes shut, ignoring his tears and tried again, feeling as if his heart were deflating as Arthur turned stone faced. “I love you, Arthur. I… care about you—”

“Then stop!”

Eames took a step back, startling at the outburst. “How can I—What? Are you _kidding_ me? Arthur, we had sex, we had a connection, almost from the very beginning. How was I not ever supposed to feel things? Wasn’t that your plan? What, you’ve changed your mind? How am I just supposed to stop everything including this case? Do you understand how deep you’ve dragged me?” He tossed up his hands, laughing in disbelief. “This is ridiculous! How can… how can you not… feel… _anything_. How can you have no honor, no integrity, nothing. What kind of person do you have to be to put on an act as compelling as you’ve done?”

Arthur looked down. He shrugged his good shoulder, fumbling with the hem of his sweater. “It was sex. People have sex all the time. It’s not a big deal. And people go in and out of other people’s lives all the time, too. And… some people just… don’t have moms. It just happens. It’s life.”

Eames laughed again, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had never felt so stupid in his life. He felt sick. Without his anger he could barely stand, let alone here in front of this person any longer. “Fine! Whatever. Just forget it and get lost. You should be lucky my own humiliation is great enough to let you leave in the first place, but I’ve had it. I want no more of this. I just want to be alone. Go and bleed on someone else’s floor. I hope you and Cobb kill each other.” He stormed past, picking up his own gun and tossed it into a drawer, wishing he were brave enough to drop it in the trash and get rid of it, damn it all.

Arthur hovered in the kitchen archway, his hand hovering over Eames’ keys but he didn’t take them. “Eames, I’m sorry. Okay?”

Eames found his pain pills and took a double dose, washing them down with water from the sink. “Oh, I’m sure you are, sweetheart.” He turned off the tap and shook his head. 

“Okay, fine!” Arthur shouted at his back. “You win! I love you! Shit,” he grimaced, smacking himself in the face. He hid behind his hands. “I shouldn’t have ever come here.” He clutched his hair. “But I wanted… I wanted… you. I _wanted_ you, Eames,” he gritted out, balling his fists. “I wanted everything you had in you, and I wanted to be selfish, knowing that it was dangerous. I knew from the first day that it would be dangerous and that Martin wouldn’t see you how I saw you and I didn’t want you dead. I came here to keep you _away_ from me and safe, and ended up here with you anyways, because…” He clutched at his wounds suddenly, confused. “He shot me. Martin, Martin never… would never… he…” He rubbed his head, seemingly chasing after his words. “He shot me. He pulled the trigger and let a bullet… _two_ bullets hurt me. He could have killed me.” He startled Eames when his eyes locked on him with intensity. He blinked rapidly. “I’m going to kill him for us, okay? He won’t be a threat to you dead. And then, I’m going to need for you to love someone else.”

Eames stuttered, not expecting that. “What?”

“You can’t love me, okay? I won’t allow it. I’ll crush it just like he’s crushed everything else. I _knew_ he could hurt me, always knew he could and he did it. He tried to kill me. Us. I wasn’t thinking about you and then bam! I realised that you weren’t safe and then he tried to kill you and a I knew you weren’t safe, and you’re even _more_ unsafe now, Eames. He pointed _this_ gun at you. He hurt you, just like I knew he would.” He frowned, shaking his head at Eames. “He can’t do that, Eames, you’re too important.”

“That’s what all of this is for? You’re _scared_? Do you know how many times I’ve lost a fight, or been shot at, Arthur? This is my job! And _my_ life. How does leaving now, again, solve anything?” Eames laughed humorlessly. “You’re nuts.”

“Exactly!” Arthur rubbed his face. “I’m a monster,” he laughed before his face went cold again. “Remember?” Arthur turned to walk away, but came back, as if on a leash, his voice rising, scaring Eames back a step when he cornered him. “I played a game with human lives, _dozens_ of them, and I lost.” He stepped closer, crumbling as he touched Eames’ sweater, guilt laced with every breath. “You won, Eames, and all those… _victims_ won. I’m going to die, Eames. It could be today, next week, or fifteen years from now, rotting in a cell waiting for the fucking lethal injection! And where does that leave you? You were alone for the whole first half of your life, and I’ve done… _terrible_ things with a terrible man, but the worst I could do at this point is make you live the rest of your life alone because we can’t—You just can’t, Eames. I need you to save that love for someone else.”

“Arthur, to say that you aren’t thinking straight is not only an understatement, it’s too little too late. Look, I’ve been diving in, head first with you from the beginning. I risked everything I had for you.”

Arthur face twisted in pain for a moment. “Yeah. I panicked.”

“You’re still panicking.”

“He was going to kill you and I thought that he did and… My head hurts.” He stepped to Eames, gently pressing him back against the sink now. He pressed his cheek to Eames’ shoulder and laced their fingers. “You’re not in love with me, Eames. People don’t fall in love after the kind of relationship we have. They go out on dates and sneak kisses in the back of movie theaters, and…they hold hands, and…”

Eames squeezed his hands, feeling his chest relax and his heart flutter when Arthur stuttered to silence. He followed Arthur’s eyes to their hands. “ _And_ , Arthur, they cuddle on the couch, and they stand close in the kitchen, their hands clasped… breathing in each other’s air and sharing body heat, and they _don’t abandon each other when things get tough_ , because _this here_ , right now, with you, is the most incredible feeling, and I don’t want to be anywhere else, with someone else, and I know you don’t want that either. But I swear, if you still want to leave now, you should, and know that I will never open my door to you again.”

Arthur buried his face in Eames’ neck as Eames wrapped his arms tightly around him. Arthur shook his head. “I don’t deserve you. _Jesus_ , how many people had what we want, or better, and I fucking took it away from them? How many people are alone right now because I took away the people they care about, Eames? And when this is all over, I’ll be taken from you too, but you didn’t do anything wrong, _I_ did.”

Eames held him tighter still, feeling the collar of his shirt dampen with Arthur’s tears.

Arthur grabbed Eames’ shirt and let Eames nudge his face enough to kiss him. “I don’t know how to fix this, Eames,” he sighed between those kisses, unable to catch his breath to speak. “I _can’t_ fix it. I can’t bring those people back and I can’t save myself. I can still save you. If I get rid of him, you’ll be safe.” He broke away, hiding his face again in Eames’ neck. “It’s over for me. A big part of me is okay with that, because it’s fair, but… I want to be selfish, I want to be with you…” He groaned as Eames began to kiss his face. “Fucking you was the biggest mistake of my entire life, Eames. And I don’t want to stop fucking you, or feeling the way I do about you, but…”

Eames chuckled sadly. “Then we’re even now.”

Arthur collapsed a little against him, shivering suddenly. “I don’t want to die a bad person.”

Eames squeezed him, his heart pained. “You won’t. I won’t let that happen.” He pulled Arthur off of him enough to see his face. “Look at me. Right now, you have a chance to do good. We can stop the people who led you down this path. We can do it _together_. We _will_ do it together, but we will do this my way. Okay?”

Arthur blinked slowly. "Okay..." But his eyes fluttered and rolled as his knees buckled. 

Eames was quick to catch him. "Arthur?" 

“I’m okay! I’m just…” He blinked rapidly, taking on a confused expression. “Tired.”

“I told you, you were in no condition to leave. Idiot.”

“Shut up, Eames.” Arthur tried to sit on the floor, looking ashen, but Eames wouldn’t let him go, knowing he wasn’t a match for having to pick Arthur completely off of the floor and there was no way in hell that a day that had begun with Eames crashing down stairs would end with him having to sleep on the kitchen floor in exhaustion.

“Come on,” he grunted, wincing when his ill-placed grip squeezed Arthur’s injured arm. He grabbed the bottle of pain pills and stumbled with Arthur past the couch to his bedroom. 

It was Eames’ turn to collapse on top of him. “Sorry, sorry. Here, take this.” 

Arthur shied from him as far as he could, his words slurring and his eyes closed. “Can’t. My medication doesn’t like other medicines.”

“Well, good thing you aren’t on your medication. _For once_.” He opened Arthur’s mouth and gave him two little tylenols. “This might make you feel a bit more able to relax.” 

He limped to the bathroom to pour Arthur water and helped him drink the pill down. 

Arthur blinked slowly, all possible adrenaline drained now that he was resting on Eames’ soft pillows and thick quilt.

They didn’t even bother with their clothes. They simply lied together, letting the minutes tick by.

Eames laughed suddenly. “My mum used to think that my life was boring. I bloody wish.” He glanced over, feeling Arthur’s hand drag across the space between them and touch his hand. “Arthur?”

“Hm?”

Eames turned, groaning as he turned off the lamp, ignoring the glow of the ones he’d forgotten in the living room and kitchen. he adjusted his pillow first before speaking softly in the dark. “How long has it been for you, Arthur?” Arthur had to tilt his head against his own pillow, looking for Eames to clarify. “When did you first start to… you know, have feelings for me, I mean.” He smiled nervously. “I knew I was in trouble with you when I woke up and you were in the kitchen cooking my breakfast the other day.”

Arthur wrinkled his face sleepily. “You yelled at me for it—”

“I was really scared then, too. You… It just felt so normal and right and it was terrifying to me.”

Arthur tried to keep his eyes open at first but gave up, giving him a lopsided smile. It was so honest, with his huffed giggle and ear touch. “I kinda knew when you saw me struggling with my hair, in the interrogation room. Do you remember that?”

“I do.” Eames tried to glare. “It was a clever trick—”

Arthur shook his head slowly. “It wasn’t. I was genuinely… surprised, and struck by the gesture. You were, you _are_ … a lot more kind and gentle with me than I deserve, Eames.”

“Someone _should_ be kind and gentle.”

Arthur smiled again. “I envy you. Your mother saved your life, you know that?”

Eames nodded though Arthur couldn’t see it. “I do. But I also understand now, what you’d said in the car a long time ago. I was _so angry_ with my father and hurt, but you lived in fear of Cobb, and his wife was of little help to you, it seems. I don’t know what would have happened to me if I’d been faced with the same, at your age, with your condition.”

They were quiet for a while before Arthur’s finger tickled up the line of Eames’ thumb. “How old were you, Eames?”

“Nine. You?”

“Six.” Arthur swallowed. He turned a little towards Eames, looking at their touching hands. “It was the same year we moved to Alaska, and when I had to start medication,” he explained, searching with difficulty to find the right words. “It was mom’s, _Mallorie’s_ , idea to get me a dog when we lived in LA, to… help with all the stress I was under, but… he barked all the time… nonstop, even through the night. I guess he didn’t like being outside or something, but whatever the reason, Cobb got fed up with his barking and snapped his neck when I was playing with him, right in my lap.”

Eames’ chest hurt as he looked to Arthur in shock. “Jesus, Arthur.”

“He blamed me for it,” Arthur continued, his empty eyes hidden almost entirely under his heavy lids. “His wife saw the whole thing… _and_ a neighbor, so… we moved away, but it’s stuck with me. It was like… Looking in Cobb’s eyes, it was like he wished he could have killed me instead.” He huffed, his other hand idly touching the bandage on his side. “I had assumed it was the truth, all this time, but now… If I could…. tell you the truth about… about how I feel…”

“Of course.”

Arthur’s brow furrowed in pain. “Eames, I’m not… sure anymore.” He panted slowly, frowning deeper. “When we fought, he just… I’ve never seen him like that. He looked desperate, _relieved_ to think that I’d come back to him and that it was going end. And what he’d said about Peter Browning… What had he said?” He shook his head. “What did he say,” he asked himself again. “But when I refused to come back to him… Cobb was so, _so_ crushed. And there was something else, when we were fighting and I saw that man shooting at…”

Eames shook Arthur’s hand to rouse him. “What man? Who else was there?”

Arthur rubbed his head. He waved his hand, clearly getting frustrated, his movements awkward in his dozing. “Forget it. Everything I saw could have been completely fabricated today.” 

Eames pet his hand as Arthur lost his battle to stay awake, quick on his heels. “Okay. We’ll try to figure this all out tomorrow.” 

+

 

Eames seemed to blink and suddenly he’d slept hours. He was startled awake by a loud crash. 

Someone was sobbing somewhere in the house.

“Arthur?”

+

 


	21. Chapter 21

+

 

It was the feeling of a needle’s sharp prick in his hip that woke Arthur from the first deep sleep he’d had in so very, very long. His heart was already pounding in his chest, as an unfamiliar warmth spread through him from that sting. It crept down his legs and up his arms, settling in his chest and his head.

He blinked in the dark, groggy but aware of the lamps still glowing like little suns in the living room down the hall. Something in the air felt off to him, like the first signs of an earthquake climbing and vibrating higher and higher up to the surface as he tried to wake himself further out of his fog. 

He was dozing again, pulled down by the strange warmth and listening to Eames’ little delicate sleeping breaths against his face when the bed shifted behind him. 

Startling, he turned to sit up, reaching for a gun, but his head was spinning. The warmth was a simmering, intoxicating heat now. All around him blood began to run down the walls, dripping from the ceiling like crude oil from a broken pipeline. He worried for a moment that it would stain the floor and ruin Eames’ cluttered room… 

And standing there, the man in the shadows brought his gloved finger to his lips, making a hushing sound.

 _Easy, easy_ _I’m not real. It's all in your head._ Those whispered words put him at ease in his drowsy state as he was guided back down to the pillows by the man’s large hands. Static electricity seemed to pulse from the man’s firm touch, tingling and numbing Arthur through every nerve in a way he was all too familiar with; the first telltale signs of a seizure took over, short-circuiting his weary mind. 

The memory of Browning’s new lab flashed briefly in his mind in shades of blue, and of seeing this vivid hallucination of a tall, dark man he now knew to be the same figure who'd shot at him. This was the same image of a man who had hovered over him time and again on weary nights after a long hunt, just like this, dressed in all black, more than terrifying in the dark of night,  _here_ , where Eames slept so soundly beside Arthur without a single clue of what Arthur’s mind was doing to him. 

The taste of Eames’ coffee bloomed on the tip of his tongue, hot down his throat, and the smell of his aftershave settled warm in Arthur’s heart. His eyes rolled back, seeing nothing and everything all at once as more random sensations and half-remember things channeled through his chaotic senses. 

The world tilted sideways then. His body broke free of his own control as the little tremors began to grow. 

He groaned as his muscles seized, but the figure covered his mouth, eyeing Eames.  _Hush, now_ , Arthur heard him say,  _Mustn’t wake your friend_. His other hand was so shockingly strong,  _real_ -seeming, pressed down on Arthur’s chest to keep his violent quaking from rousing Eames. 

It was suffocating, but his other hallucinations had certainly never been this helpful before. In spite of everything, somehow this figure was still vivid, and so mindful of Arthur’s need to never let Eames know when he was on the edge of that high cliff, or now, when he was actually plummeting to the ground. His muscles screamed but his tongue felt too thick to let any sound pass his rigid mouth under the pressure of this man's image.

He seemed to fall forever, cutting through the wind, deafening, until at last he plunged into the flooding of crude blood around him and drowned… the figure releasing him at last to take his leave out of the dark room… 

 

The snake was back in Cutter’s cabin. All his lover's talk of releasing it back into the wild was up in smoke with it coiled in the kitchen again. 

Its slithering and hissing woke Arthur with a start as Cutter slept on in his arms. 

Arthur moved away, feeling as if a brick had been lodged in his head, his muscles all sore, his chest aching and bruised under his clothes. He drew his legs up as he sat against the headboard, listening in the dark. 

He wasn’t afraid. Not exactly. Afraid of the sting of being bitten and of dying in that’s venom’s pain, yes. But thinking back, Arthur couldn't recall just when most creatures had lost their danger. Cutter had worked hard to see that happen. The snake was an animal like any other and it simply wouldn’t remove itself.

Or refuse the next opportunity to come back once again for the warmth of Cutter’s house, away from the Maryland rain and November’s cold. 

He tried to pick up and organize all the places where more snakes could be hidden, but his head swam whenever he tried to focus. Touching a stack of FBI folders, his fingertips felt none of their smoothness, his nerves still numb and tingling through his body. 

Arthur staggered to the kitchen and turned the light on. Staring down at the snake in the harsh light, Arthur frowned, feeling pity touch him briefly. Why would this animal assume so many times that this house was safer than the world outside, given the man who lived here— _had_  lived here. Or did he still? 

Arthur’s head pounded as he crouched low, the tiles wet with rain from his dripping coat and hair. His gunshot wounds were throbbing again but where and how he’d managed to get himself shot, he could only chalk it up to another trick of his mind. It was always trying to fool him as far as Cutter was concerned. Imagined threats of abandonment and violence, intimidation, and then a growing collection of scrapes and bruises for misbehaving. All imagined. Cutter would never. Cutter had even promised that he’d never hurt him, and if he did, it wouldn’t happen again, and it hadn’t, no matter how many times Arthur's brain and his temperamental reality said that it did. 

The snake moved forward, hesitant but curious. Arthur ran the back of his hand under its neck and let it scent him. “You shouldn’t be here,” he whispered, in a voice that felt too deep and too old for his little body. “The man who lives here… isn’t a very nice man.”

Cutter’s heavy stomping boots seemed to rattle the snake out of existence. Arthur scurried back to the corner, his heart pounding, his hands shaking as he wiped away his tears with the cuff of his soaked coat sleeve. Shame, fear, even anger washed over him suddenly. 

And blinding confusion. This place didn’t feel like Cutter’s cabin at all. The kitchen was too big, too bright. No firewood and maple to fill his nose, only the memory of coffee and someone’s old cigarette habit in this unfamiliar coat Arthur wore.

“What the fuck are you still doing here, boy?” Cutter seemed to rip the chair from the floor, tossing it out of his way in his rage. He loomed over Arthur, his fists clenched. “You have to be the dumbest kid who ever lived.”

Arthur’s teeth chattered. “I…  _hate_  you,” he seethed, burning through his tears. “You hurt me,” he gritted out, “when I did everything you ever told me to! Why can’t you love me?” His heart stopped when he was dragged to his feet again by his coat. 

Cutter's whole face went red, his veins bulging as he yelled. "You are  _not_  going to ruin my life!"

Arthur stumbled against him, reaching for the sink at the first glint of shining silver.

The knife’s hilt felt hollow in his grip, weightless as his back hit the wall.

Cutter's lips crashed against his, his bulk crushing Arthur for a moment until his lips faltered against Arthur’s. 

Arthur gasped for air, feeling a strange heat bloom over his stomach and down his legs. He startled as Cutter fell against him, pulling them both down as the man's knees buckled. 

Arthur stared down at his hand. Were boys and men so different when they bled? Red covered everything, it seemed, all of the walls, the ceiling, the floors. He remembered red blood on white snow when he was younger still, but not like this. It overflowed from Cutter’s stomach like an overturned glass full of water, refilling and spilling over again with every shuddering breath the man took.

In his head, Arthur's voices wailed in excitement as he wailed in horror at what he'd done, at what Cutter had made him do. 

Cutter grabbed his stomach to stop the blood and reached for the sink, staggering to his feet. He swayed, looking to Arthur in shock. And more rage, his skin chipping and cracking as he began to speak. “You… little… fucker,” he gasped and choked. "You're dead."

But Arthur didn't see it at first. The second Cutter loomed over him again he struck him with the knife over and over, willing the man to give up, but still he grabbed Arthur and shielded his face, his arm and hand blooming with more blood when hit. 

He pulled Arthur down, punching him hard enough to remind Arthur just who between them was more powerful, weapon or not. Arthur’s vision went hazy, the world shaded with Cutter blocking the light. 

He put his weight in his grip, straddling Arthur and squeezing his throat with hands wet with blood.

Arthur scrambled. He might as well have been caught under a rockslide and crushed. There was nowhere to go and no hope of pushing him off. Wherever he grabbed for Cutter, only cracking skin pulled away, like slips of plaster, revealing only more healthier flesh beneath it. His eyes watered, and for a moment there was no sound in his head, no visions to confuse or comfort him, just his own choking and Cutter’s ragged, happy breaths.

His finger touched the knife’s blade. It cut his palm when he reached for it on the cold tiles. It slipped nearly out of his grasp, but by the time Cutter saw it and released Arthur enough to grab his collar and drag him in an attempt to get him away from that knife, Arthur had it.

Blood sprayed Arthur’s face when he brought it to the man’s neck, aiming blindly in the harsh light again.

Cutter caught Arthur’s knee in his gut and the knife in his throat a second, final time. He pushed away from Arthur, clutching his own neck in horror, knowing he was done for.

Arthur turned on his stomach and crawled, woozy once he got to his knees. He held the table leg and gagged, heaving, his stomach cramping with grief and the sound of Cutter’s dying… and with the indescribable relief that he’d survived. Again. 

In his shock, he peeled out of his coat, surprised to see his own blood on his ribs and his arm, but still he rose to his feet and turned on the water in the faucet. 

He washed his face and hands, splashing away blood and tears. It did nothing to settle his nerves. He needed to call home to Margret for help. He was trembling when he filled a glass with water and touched it to his lips.

Clapping startled him. “Well done, lad.”

Arthur’s glass shattered on the floor when he turned, paling. Cutter was leaning on the archway, smug and proud and as alive to Arthur as he’d ever been. “What… the…” 

Only, Cutter was still slumped in a pool of blood on the floor. Arthur looked from one to the other, his very soul freezing as realization dawned on him.

Cutter chuckled. “I have to admit, that wasn’t as gruesome and tiring as when I died, or all those times when you thought you were gutting me again,” he teased, coming forward. “You’re always improving. Got to give a boy credit for that, at least.” 

Arthur shook, frozen in place as Cutter held his cheeks. It took having to listen to more of the man’s taunts to see that Cutter was still as big as he used to be, but it was Arthur himself who had changed. Taller, broader, older…  _himself_ , as he was now, standing in Eames’ kitchen with his gunshot wounds bleeding through his stitches. 

“Poor, poor little boy,” Cutter was whispering, his lovely brow furrowing in mock pity. “No matter how much you grow, you’re  _still_  at the mercy of a world much stronger and more powerful than you.”

Arthur pushed him away, screaming. He clutched his head and collapsed, hurrying to the dead man on the floor. “I don’t understand!” He touched Cutter’s face, and the darkening blood and all his gashes. The cracks in his skin were curling. Arthur tore at them, screaming again once he saw whose face lay underneath the mask. “No… no no no no… This can’t be… This can’t be real! Eames!” He shook him violently, willing Eames to wake. He wiped at the blood, but only more poured sluggishly, his skin blueing. 

Arthur’s screams tore at his throat but still he roared in disbelief, curling into himself. 

Cutter dragged him to his feet by his hair, forcing him to look at him through his tears. “What did I tell you? Huh? A long, long time ago, I swore to you that you would never be happy, and I was right, wasn’t it?”

“No! No, you don’t understand,” Arthur sobbed, gasping as he clutched Cutter’s shirt. “He’s pure. He’s innocent! Please! Please tell me that… that I didn’t do this… please?”

“Oh hush, lad. There are no pure men in this world.” He huffed, glancing at Eames. “Especially now.”

“No!” Arthur tried to break away to reach for Eames again, but Cutter wrapped an arm around his waist and lifted him. He was thrown to the floor on the living room, his hair pulled back again for him to see who else was here. 

The teenaged boys leaned on the couch corners, all tall and terrifying as they loaded their hunting rifles. The oldest, dark-haired boy was the first to look at Cutter. He whistled, his smile lined with teeth as sharp as a fox’s. “Check it out, guys. Hunting season came early again this year. Where’s your dad now, Arthur?” 

Arthur sat up, moving back instinctively between Cutter’s legs to hide. “Michael… no… Not you. Why you?”

“Why? Because you’re fun to play with. Little freaks always make for the best target practice, eh, guys?”

Arthur let Cutter pull him to his feet, his hands bruising Arthur’s arms as he held him captive. He shook his head, his misery giving way to the only thing inside him he could trust. His rage. “I will fucking kill all of you,” he sobbed, trying not to think of Eames’ blood still covering him, “ _again_ …”

+

 

Eames was startled awake by a loud crash. Someone was sobbing somewhere in the house.

“Arthur?” Eames’ heart beat out of control as a heavy sense of dread took over. “Arthur!”

When he didn’t respond, Eames rolled out of bed, but jumped back once he stepped in something wet on the floor. Quickly he turned on a lamp. “Jesus Christ…”

Several trails of blood ran from his bedroom door back and forth to his bathroom and out to the hallway.

Whatever had happened, it was bad. Even worse if it was still in progress. He could hear the sobbing again, muffled behind another door. He took several deep breaths.

He hurried to grab his gun, only it was gone, no doubt still lying wherever he’d put Cobb’s when he and Arthur had left the kitchen.

He tried calling for Arthur again, panicking. There was nothing to defend himself with if Arthur had his gun—or if someone else had it. It hadn’t crossed his mind until he’d crept out of his room, following the blood trail, that someone could have broken in, but the likelihood of a burglar taking down Arthur, even in the middle of the night, was a little too good to be true. Unless Cobb had found them far faster than the two of them could have prepared for.

The whole house was dark, but Eames still had a good idea where the sobbing came from even before he turned on a lamp in the living room and saw more red dots on his floor, scattered around Arthur’s abandoned clothes. A glass lay shattered on the kitchen floor in a puddle of water.

The door to the guest bathroom was pulled closed, but not completely shut as Eames stepped forward, bracing himself.

“Go away!” The voice startled Eames again. “Please,” Arthur sobbed quietly, “please go away.”

“Arthur,” Eames spoke softly, “it’s okay. I just want to help.”

“No, no thank you, sir,” he choked, in the same quiet voice. “I have enough help, thank you. Okay? Good bye.”

Eames took a chance, opening the door and turning on the light. He stood in the doorway in shock. “Arthur, what the hell have you done to yourself?”

Arthur cringed, his eyes tightly shut, his hands over his ears. He was cowering in the bathtub in his underwear and t-shirt with tears streaming down his cheeks. Scattered here and there on his arms and legs were small cuts from a broken razor, some deep, others shallow. All of his stitches had been pulled open, his bloody bandages forgotten on the floor.

Arthur curled up even more when he heard Eames move into the bathroom. “No, please, go away. I’m almost finished, just forty-three more to set free. This is better. So much, so much better than the other thing if I can’t see anybody, but I can feel them under my skin. It burns. I have to get them out before they make me hurt more people.”

Eames sat on the edge of the tub, listening to Arthur’s rambling. He was totally lost.

“I have to find the teacher,” Arthur kept repeating, rubbing the dull side of the small blade up his legs. When he reached under his bloody undershirt he began to sob again, groaning miserably.

Eames tried to reach for it to stop him, but Arthur bit him, his eyes still closed. “I asked you,” Arthur hissed, “please go away.”

“I won’t, Arthur. Are you—are you still asleep? Open your eyes for me?”

“No!” Arthur shook his head, shrinking away from Eames’ touch as if it burned him. “No, no, no, Cutter, no. Please listen this time. I don’t want you here. You need to go. I don’t have any more room. There’s already forty-three people in here.”

Eames swallowed. “H-how many were in there before I got here?”

“Fifty-four. Please go away. I don’t want anymore. No more accidents.”

“Okay, okay.” Eames rubbed his face, his heart pounding. “Just…tell me, Arthur, one more thing, okay? What happened the last time you tried to… get the people out like this?”

Arthur pulled roughly on his ears and groaned, hiding behind his hands. He broke down. “I couldn’t,” he sobbed. “They wouldn’t let me.”

“Why not?”

“Because I have to be a hunter. Always,” Arthur explained. His hands shook so much the razor fell from his grasp. Still he refused to open his eyes as he patted the tub floor searching for it.

Eames plucked it up quickly, silently rolling it up in toilet paper before he shoved it down in the nearly full trash bin. “Listen, Arthur, you need to look at me.”

“No, no, no more. I’m tired.”

“Arthur, you need to look at me so you can come out of your delusion. There aren’t any people in your skin, darling. You’re only just hurting yourself. See? Look.”

Making Arthur open his eyes was a mistake. Eames realized this the moment Arthur began to scream, a pained noise coming from the back of his throat.

Arthur quickly rubbed at his skin as if the cuts would disappear. He froze suddenly when Eames’ hands came into view. He glanced up, wide-eyed and pale. "C-Cutter?"

"No?"

“No, you're... Not you again,” he whispered. “You’re the worst one.”

Eames leaned back. “What? Me? What did I do?”

Arthur lunged forward, growling as he sent Eames crashing onto his back.

“Arthur, stop it! Arthur, stop!” Eames was stronger, but Arthur had his arms wrapped around Eames’ neck, dragging him up. In Eames’ struggle, his elbow hit the side of the tub, rattling him.

Arthur meant to bash Eames’ head in. Eames fought harder. 

“Why can’t you fucking die?” Arthur shouted, trying to wrestle Eames’ arms away. “Why do you keep coming back?”

“Arthur, try,” Eames begged, “try to come back to me? Whatever you see, it’s not real!”

He had to kick Arthur off and scrambled to his feet. He shut the door between him, feeling Arthur put his strength into pushing it open, but without luck. Arthur roared.

All at once it stopped. Eames didn’t let go of the knob, but he could hear Arthur’s ragged breathing. The water turned on.

“Arthur?” Eames pressed his ear to the door, straining to hear some telltale sign that whatever had happened was passed now. “Arthur, are you okay? Please… please talk to me? I need to know you’re okay?”

The water turned off.

It was terrifying. Arthur could be killing himself and Eames was hiding like a coward behind the door.

“Arthur? Fuck it. I’m going to come in, alright? Just… just sit tight. We’ll figure this out, okay?”

He cracked the door open and was instantly knocked to the floor. His whole world went dark and damp as the soaked towel was wrapped tightly around his head. Eames choked, feeling like he was drowning. He held his breath and tried his best not to struggle, pretending to be unconscious or dead.

It was an agonizing thing.

But it worked.

Arthur collapsed over him.

“I’m so sorry,” he panted. “It wasn’t my fault. I had to protect myself. Michael, you were so, so mean to me. I have to. Please be dead. Please don’t come back anymore.”

Eames felt Arthur leave his back and hurried to pull the towel off, gulping in big lungfuls of air.

Arthur scrambled back away from him. “Oh my god… No!”

“Arthur, wait,” Eames said, stepping away with a hand extended to keep distance between them. “Can you see me? Do you know who I am? I’m Eames. I’m… I’m your friend.”

“You’re lying! Cutter, you‘re lying! Go away!”

“I’m not, please! I’m not!”

“No, no,” Arthur sobbed, lying on the floor. “You’re lying. Eames is dead. I killed him. I killed him and I’m so sorry. It was a mistake. It was a terrible mistake.”

“But you didn’t. Arthur, I’m right here—”

“Go away!” Arthur climbed to his feet. “Stop haunting me!”

Eames had to think fast. He tackled Arthur back to the floor, trapping him in a bear hug. He held him kicking and screaming. “I’m Eames! Look at me, Arthur! You know who I am!”

Arthur screamed, his whole body shaking as he fell apart for a moment. He struggled again, weaker now. 

At last he met Eames’ gaze and stilled. “E-Eames? What?” He broke his hands free to feel Eames’ face and neck in shock. “But… I… I…” His eyes went blank, rolling back. He began to choke, going limp before he succumbed to his seizure.

“Oh no, Arthur! Shit, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Eames released him quickly, thinking fast as Arthur’s head thudded against the hard floor. He grabbed the towel and folded it under Arthur’s head, keeping a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Arthur, breathe. If you can hear me, just relax. Try to breathe, darling.”

The seizure seemed to go on without end. Eames was only familiar with the more physically pronounced, violently shaking seizures, but Arthur barely moved as Eames petted his hair and sat by him, watching him carefully.

Arthur blinked at last, his chest rising as if he’d holding his breath.

As he slowly came back, Eames hurried into the kitchen for the phone.

His mother’s voice was surprised when she answered. “William? You’re up awfully early. Is everything o—”

“No time to explain,” he said, speaking softly. “Just… Listen, mum, Arthur had a really rough night and I know that he likes you and you… don’t exactly hate him, so… C-could you talk to him? Please?”

“About what?”

“Anything. Just let him hear your voice.”

“What should I say? I have no idea!”

Eames could almost see her blush and fidget self-consciously as he turned the speaker volume to a low level and placed the phone near Arthur’s ear. He sat back, giving Arthur space.

“Hello?” She paused. “Arthur, pumpkin? Is… um… is my William giving you a hard time? Are you there? William?”

“He’s here, mum, just keep talking.”

Arthur blinked slowly, seeing nothing, but hopefully listening as Eames’ mother rambled, laughing quietly at her own awkwardness.

“I hope both of you boys are eating more healthier meals? And… You certainly aren’t getting the kind of sleep you need, what with it being four-in-the-morning. What on earth are you doing, darling? Hm? Are you alright?”

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed, “Eames… calls me darling too.”

“Oh, he does?” She tsked. “Oh, that’s lovely. My boy is quite charming when he wants to be, which is sadly so rare… It’s a habit of mine, this ‘darling’. I hope it doesn’t embarrass you the way it does my husband when I call him little names too.”

“I like it,” Arthur sighed again, each word requiring less and less effort. “It’s… It’s nice.”

“Precisely! Calling loved ones by their real names all the time just sounds so… boring, so… Well, I don’t know. But men like my husband just seem to get their feathers so ruffled over it.” She chuckled. “My son probably agrees more with him, I’m sure, but he’s just too polite to tell me otherwise. Do you… do you call him anything special too?”

“Just Mr. Eames.”

She chuckled again, breathy and sad. “Did he ever tell you that when he was young, he begged me to have his surname changed, after his father was put away? Mine changed every time I remarried, but my boy was stuck with Eames. It’s sounds cruel, on the surface, I know, but I’ve always known that my son was going to turn that name into something good again.”

All while she spoke, Arthur moved, rolling over onto his side and then to his back again. His hands rose heavily and clumsily to cover his face, but Eames could still see a tear slip down his cheek.

“Arthur? Are you still with me? William? Is he still—”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur answered at last, shedding more tears.

“For what, pumpkin?”

“I killed your son.”

She was slow to answer. “But… but you didn’t… did you?”

“I don’t know,” he moaned, trying to think. “No, ma’am, but—”

“Well then, what’s that miserable voice that I hear? You strange boy. I think you are under a terrible amount of stress and that can’t be good for you, hm? Do you tend to get confused often?”

He sighed. “I don’t know.”

“I think you do, pumpkin. I’m ordering my son, right now, to cease this wild chase you’re both on for the rest of today. Sleep. Eat. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. I’m going to speak with my son now, but I’ll be checking in on you again soon. William?”

Eames made the call private again and stepped into the kitchen, mindful not to go far.

“My goodness, William, what on earth has happened? He thought he’d  _killed_  you? That boy needs help! Help that not even you can give him and you know that! This is madness!”

“I know, I know.” Eames grimaced, trying to massage away his headache.

“You may very well be  _completely_ in over your head.”

“I’ve got it under control.”

She huffed. “Do you, darling?”

Eames sighed. “Look, mum, thanks for your help. I’ll talk with you soon. Bye.” He hung up before she could argue more.

He considered hiding in the kitchen, maybe stalling by cleaning up the glass on the floor, but he headed back to Arthur anyways.

Arthur was sitting up with a sizeable distance between him and the towel and blood. His eyes were red as he looked at the little cuts on his legs.

He was shaking, watching Eames move about in an attempt to find cleaning supplies. “Why am I bleeding? What… what happened?”

“I think you tried to waterboard me into a heart attack, that’s what happened. Or maybe that was just a strangling attempt? Either way, you fucking tried to kill me. In my house.”

“Oh no,” Arthur groaned, covering his face again. “Eames, I’m—”

“Are you claustrophobic?”

“What?” 

“I’m asking you, are you triggered by small spaces?”

Arthur frowned, wincing a little as if thinking hurt. “I don’t think I am, but… look I can explain. Sometimes, I have dreams or… or maybe visions… that seem  _so_  real when I’m in them and it’s hard for me to—What are you doing?”

Eames pulled him to his feet by his arm. His chest felt pained, but still Eames opened the linen closet and pulled out a thick quilt just enough to sit Arthur down on before he dropped him. Eames quickly locked him inside.

He slid down the door, sitting there, listening to Arthur jiggle the lock once and give up. It was a terrible thing to do to the boy, but Arthur’s mind was completely shattered and there was no way of knowing what sort of delusion might strike him next. If there were over fifty people ‘inside’ Arthur – whatever that meant – Eames did not want to meet any of them right now.

“Eames?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, angrily wiping away tears. Arthur cried like a child, quietly and scared as he tried the knob again and gave up.

Eames counted his breaths, trying to calm himself. He just needed a minute to think. A break. 

Try as he might, however, nothing came to him. He thumped his empty head back with no clue at all of what to do now.

+ 

 


	22. Chapter 22

+

 

“Eames?” He heard Arthur’s quiet voice say from the door. “Are you there?”

Eames couldn’t get his voice to work.

After a few breaths, he heard Arthur gasp.

Something scraped on the floor. It was a bloody piece of glass. A few moments more and Arthur gasped again before pushing another piece under the door. His feet were probably bleeding from the fallen cup in the kitchen. Was this a call for help or his idea of proof that he was no longer dangerous?

Arthur’s voice was thick when he spoke again. “I’m sorry.” Eames could hear him pulling another quilt from one of the shelves. “I never meant to hurt you. Or anyone. I promise. I promise, Eames. It was a mistake.”

Eames swallowed. “How was that a mistake, Arthur? Hm? How does a person ‘accidentally’ choose to murder another person?”

“No, no, no. I mean…” Something thudded faintly on Arthur’s side. There wasn’t a lot of a room to get comfortable inside the closet, but Eames didn’t move to free him.

“Eames, sometimes, I… I get confused by my dreams when I’m tired. It always happens after I’ve… but… That didn’t happen this time. I didn’t kill Browning and yet I still got so overwhelmed tonight that I couldn’t tell what was real at all. It’s bad enough that I hear things and see horrible monsters when I’m awake, but when I have these dreams, I can’t… I… I dreamed that I killed you, or imagined it, or _something_ and I could touch you. I touched your blood and felt you getting cold. I freaked, and then everything went sideways… I was just exploding with all of those other people I’d killed. I was going to free them and then kill myself before I could make more mistakes. I thought I’d killed you… I really thought you were dead.”

Eames glared at the opposite wall, listening. “You feel those other people inside you? Your victims?”

“When I get like this… Yeah.”

“I know your story, Arthur, but I still don’t understand why. Why can’t you just stop? Why so many? None of them were on any list planned out for you to assassinate them. Not teachers and janitors, Arthur.”

“I don’t know.”

Eames balled his fists, fully at the mercy of his anger now that the adrenaline was dying down.. “And this… ticking time bomb in you, that makes you see your victims and make new ones ‘by mistake’, it’s been in there from the beginning, hasn’t it?”

“Eames—”

“Answer me! Tell me the truth for once! You knew that this could happen, didn’t you?”

Arthur softly thumped his head on the door again. “...yeah.”

Eames snorted, rubbing away tears as he laughed. “You _knew_ this, and yet when I asked you how bad it would be when your medication ran out, you… you lied to me!” He shoved his back at the door in frustration, wanting to rip his hair out and scream. “My god, why did I ever let you stay here? You tried to kill me, Arthur!” He buried his face in his hands, sobbing at last. “Jesus fucking Christ.”

“No, no, Eames. I love you. I’m so sorry—”

He scrambled to his feet, slamming his hand on the door before he leaned against it. He pressed his forehead to the wood, shaking. “I hope they all continue to haunt you. I hope you see their faces forever.”

“Eames, please, I need you to understand,” Arthur sobbed. “When I lose control, nothing in the real world makes sense anymore! But I _didn’t_ kill you! Something, _everything_ , was different this time!”

“Bullshit, Arthur! If I hadn’t been able to get you off of me faster, I would be a fucking corpse right now and another to add to your massive collection!” He paced for a moment, but another thought struck him. “You called me Cutter, before. I remember that name from Yusuf’s report. And… Michael, or something. I remember hearing that name too. Who are they? If not two other defenseless men you’ve butchered, huh? Were they mistakes too?”

Silence. A small eternity seemed to pass between them. Eames was ready to shout at him, before he heard Arthur speak again.

“Oh god, Eames…” Another long pause. “They’re… different. He, _Cutter_ , is… different.” 

Eames opened his mouth to speak, hearing Arthur’s words devolve into sobbing, but Arthur wasn’t finished.

“I see him… and… four others… sometimes. It depends. I see them. They’re after me all over again and I have to kill them, Eames. I have to kill them before they kill me. That’s how they died. They chased me in the woods with guns like an animal and I killed them,” he groaned. “But they keep coming back. Michael keeps coming back and I have to kill them all or else… Only, when it’s over, someone else is always laying in the place where they should be.”

Arthur took several ragged breaths, his voice so close to shattering, Eames had to press his ear to the door to hear it. “I’d be lying,” he continued, “if I said this only happens when I run out of my medication, but… I wonder sometimes if half of my pills aren’t placebos, or if I end up with whole bottles of pills that don’t work, because I still see them still, and when I do… the wrong people die.”

“But that’s impossible. You said so yourself, that Mallorie Cobb is responsible for…” His shoulders sank. “How long has this been happening? Tell me.”  

“Maybe… four years? I could never seem to get my medicine on time. Mom… Mallorie, she would move some place else and I couldn’t reach her.”

Four years. As long as the investigation. “Arthur, that doesn’t make sense. She’s your doctor. She would never be that careless with you of all people… Are you sure? Because if you are… then…”

“Please let me out,” Arthur begged, cutting through Eames’ thoughts. 

Eames stepped back from the door. “No. I can’t.”

“Why? Eames, please!”

“Because I don’t know if I can trust you! I don’t know if i can trust anything right now!”

“I swear, it’s over. Come on, Eames, I’m okay now. I promise.”

“No. No, Arthur, I…” He squeezed his eyes shut, hurting. He wiped his cheeks dry and found his breath. “Just give me a minute, okay?” 

He hurried to his bedroom and closed the door behind him before he could persuade himself to ignore all reason. Again.

He sat on the edge of his rumpled bed before deciding that his clothes were too stuffy and unbreathable. He stripped down, grimacing at the islands and continents of bruises littering his body. He took a handful of pain pills again and showered quickly, feeling just as on-edge and runthrough as he’d been ten minutes before. 

He balled up his clothes, startled when his dead phone fell out of his coat pocket. The poor screen was cracked. He was bending over to plug it into its charger when he heard scrambling and the sound of a lock being tinkered with.

He hurried out to the hallway. Only Arthur was silent in his confines, the door untouched. 

“Arthur?”

“Yeah?”

“You alright in there?”

“No.”

Eames waited for that sound again. When he heard it, it wasn’t coming from Arthur at all.

“Eames?”

He headed for the kitchen, for his gun, but he was stopped when his front door burst open, splintering with the force of the police battering ram.

Adeyemi looked as stunned as Eames was to see them. “Thank god! I was worried we wouldn’t get here in time, mate!” 

“Eames!” Ariadne ducked under Adeyemi’s arm to hurry to him. She checked him over, smiling. “Thanks for giving me a heart attack.”

Eames stumbled back from the force of Adeyemi’s and Ariadne’s hug. “What the hell is going on?”

Aridane took out her gun, walking past him. “Where is he, Eames?”

Eames froze. “Who?” But there were already heavily armed women and men in fatigues and others in hospital uniforms flooding into his house.

Adeyemi sighed. “It’s alright, mate. Yusuf went to Ariadne when he couldn’t get to you. I knew you two weren’t mates so I cracked him down until he spilled. We know Harris is here. You’re safe now.” 

“No, no, no, no, you don’t understand. I can explain. He’s been helping me. We collected evidence together and went to crime scenes, and—” Several men caught his eye as they clustered near his bedroom with Ariadne. “No! Get back!” He hurried to them, but Adeyemi caught his arm as five of the men aimed their guns at the closet door. 

He guided Eames to stand back.

Arthur’s voice was afraid when he called out. “Eames?”

Adeyemi motioned for Eames to keep quiet. He nodded for one of the men to reach for the lock on the door, his eyes on the other cops.

“Wait, he’s hurt,” Eames said, trying to move around Adeyemi, but the man kept his hand out to block him.

Arthur startled back when the door was swung open, the men grabbing him by the arms in a flash.

“Eames, no!” Arthur elbowed and kicked, breaking free but more men were on him. He tried to struggled, but their grips bruised him as they slammed him into the wall.

Eames watched as Arthur’s panic turned into something else he couldn’t pinpoint as his eyes darted back, taking in the chaos around him.

Arthur’s eyes were wide as he whispered, looking at Adeyemi. “You… You're real… You're a real person. Oh my god. I’ve seen you before… when I was a kid. And—”

“Get him out of here,” Adeyemi ordered, summoning the nurse assistants.

“Eames, no! Listen to me, he was here! Earlier, in your room! That was him! And at Browning’s speech!” He paled. “You shot me. Oh my god, you shot me.”

“Sure, sure,” Adeyemi chuckled, “and I’m the Tooth Fairy as well on my days off.”

“Eames, no! They’re not with you!” 

Eames looked to Adeyemi. “What’s he talking about?”

“Oh, come on, Eames! You’ve been brainwashed by this little snake. What’s he ever talking about, huh?” Adeyemi’s brow furrowed in pity. He rubbed Eames’ arm. “All he’s done is spin tales and I can tell from the look in your eyes that you are firmly trapped in them all.”

“No, he was helping me, Adeyemi. He’s how I managed to get to Cobb, the man pulling the strings. I couldn’t tell you, because I know you wouldn’t have believed it, but trust me.”

“Trust _us_ , Eames,” Ariadne said, holstering her gun. “He’s been playing you this whole time.”

“No,” Arthur shouted, “Eames, you know that’s not true!” He almost broke free, but his arm was caught and twisted behind him. Pained tears ran down his face as he pleaded. “Eames, it’s a trap. I know him! He’s with Cobb! Please, please don’t let them take me, he’ll kill you!”

“Eames, come on,” Adeyemi muttered, turning him away from Arthur. “ _Come back to us_ , mate. You know that he only ever was caught because of _your_ hard work and _your_ smarts. With him on the loose and you behind his tail, he’d have never been able to get far. He’s been leading you on a wild goose chase since he escaped just to keep you occupied while his partner runs free to kill and kill again, until their wild, insane mission was over.”

Eames stepped back, looking from Adeyemi to Arthur, who still struggled under the bulk of the men holding him. “That can’t be true… We… We made a connection, a motive behind Cobb’s hits. We’d been close to figuring it out from the beginning. It almost got us—”

“ _Killed_?” Ariadne nodded. “What else was supposed to happen to you today?”

“No, no, that was Cobb. Arthur protected me! The same way he protected me when our investigation got us followed by two men who cornered me in a bloody rest stop near Richmond. I know I’ve had a target on my back from the beginning but it’s not coming from Arthur.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Ariadne frowned, glancing from Adeyemi to Eames. “That was _you_? The two men who’d been knifed—”

“Yes! They were sent to follow us and the second they got me alone, they—”

Her frowned deepened. “He’s been here since his escape?” 

Betrayal washed over Adeyemi face. “He was here when I stopped by, then.”

“I couldn’t let either of you know. You had already cut me off, Idris. I couldn’t risk it.”

“I cut you off with good bloody reason! Eames, listen to yourself! Would you have done any of this with any other suspect?”

Eames shook his head. “He isn’t any other suspect, and this isn’t like any case we’ve had before.”

“Do you know who one of those men were he killed in Richmond? An undercover cop!”

Ariadne sighed. “We uncovered Cobb’s operation not long after Arthur had escaped—”

“That cop was a twenty-year veteran,” Adeyemi interrupted, “just like you, and he was infiltrating Cobb’s network, finding who he _and_ Arthur Harris were really working for.”

“Eames, no,” Arthur panted, his neck squeezed in a chokehold. “He’s lying. You know the truth. They were going to kill you, remember. You had a gun pointed at your head.” 

“They were,” Eames agreed. “He’s right.”

Adeyemi fumed. “Eames, you think an undercover policeman was going to let you get killed? His record was clean. I knew him personally. He looked up to you! I can show you his badge, his records, whatever you need for proof. _This_ one,” he pointed at Arthur, his voice hardening more, “however, just killed them both, whether he and Cobb had set the whole thing up for you to be killed right then, or if it was Cobb alone. I can only assume that Arthur wasn’t done playing with you yet. Not that early into his escape, therefore, he let you live then. No, this bastard’s been digging hooks in you from day-one, Eames, and when he was done using you, _today_ , after his hit on Browning failed, all hell broke loose, apparently. If you were anyone else, you wouldn’t have lived to see tomorrow.”

“Eames,” Arthur choked, “it’s not true! Don’t let him fool you!”

“ _Eames_ ,” Adeyemi cut across Arthur, shaking Eames’ shoulders. “We’ve been busy, while you were out and about in his adventure. We found the children. _Ariadne_ , to her credit, found them.”

She nodded. “He and Cobb buried them on Cobb’s property out in South Dakota.”

Eames felt as if his blood were draining. “What?”

“All of the victims have been accounted for now,” she continued. “And _yes_ , what you did was… well it was stupid, but we were able to get Cobb, and with the findings you have here, I’m sure we’ll locate Mallorie Cobb too.”

“The case is done,” Adeyemi said. “We got them. We also found this. A manifesto of sorts, like Arthur’s butchering of random people was some sick sport to keep him entertained between his and Cobb’s hits, and we found lists, like the one in your hand.”

Eames unfolded the slip of paper he’d been handed. It was a list of only two names. Peter Browning’s, and Eames’ own.

His hands shook as he looked at Arthur. He bit back tears.

Arthur still tried to get away, to reach for Eames as the back of shirt was hiked up and his hip bared. “No, no, no! That’s not true! You know me! You have to believe me! He’s lying!” 

Eames rubbed his face as a war raged in his head. “I don’t know what to believe.”

Adeyemi rubbed his back. “He’s had you caught in an intricate web for days and days, Eames. It’s just what he does. He’s driven by delusions, and by his partner, by _bloodshed_. ‘There’s the kill,’ he had written on that manifesto, ‘and then there’s the joy of setting traps and waiting’ that fuels his fire, Eames.” 

“We’re just glad we got to you in time,” Ariadne agreed.

Arthur’s panic returned, his voice high and broken. “Eames! Eames, please—” He gasped for breath, clawing at the arm around his neck, but it was too late. The nurse’s needle was emptied into Arthur’s hip. His grip loosened and his knees buckled. “Eames… Eames…” He collapsed, reaching out for Eames. He cringed as if physically struck when Eames took a step away from him. “I… never lied to you… I promise. I meant… everything I said. I love… I love…”

It was like watching an execution. Eames turned away, wiping his eyes quickly before anyone could see his tears. He took several deep breaths, but he still felt dizzy. He leaned against the wall.

“Eames?” Adeyemi glanced at Ariadne, muttering, “Go with them.” He turned to Eames and spoke softly. “I’m sorry, mate. You know I am. I hate seeing a good man driven to these extremes. I shouldn’t have left things the way they were. Our history’s more important than this case.”

“Just get him out of my house, Idris. Please.”

“Already done.”

Eames was led into the kitchen where Adeyemi sat him down.

He sat in silence as Adeyemi raided his fridge, waiting for Eames’ front door to be repaired. Ariadne gathered up his case work and their evidence, taking them away.

“No beer in the house?” Adeyemi tsked. He joined Eames with a glass of orange juice. “You okay in that head?”

“Oh. Yeah.”

“Look, I know this has all been a rollercoaster for you, but on the upside, Harris _did_ inadvertently lead us to Cobb yesterday. Now both will be gone and you’re safe.”

“Everyone is now. Particularly…” He swallowed thickly, thinking of his name on that last.

“Hey? You’re right. We can all sleep easy tonight. In the morning, however, you will be reporting to my office and we're going to talk more in-depth, see about some counseling. And trust me, Eames," he purred. "We’ll take care of him for you.”

Eames looked up at Adeyemi, the study of his hands forgotten. He didn’t get the kind of satisfaction from the man’s smirk as he thought he ought to.

They listened to the repairman replace the lock.

Eames cleared his throat. “Don’t. He’s a troubled kid out of control of his mind. That’s been his whole life. I don’t… I don’t blame him for that. He needs help, treatment.”

Adeyemi arched his brow. “ _Eames_.”

“I’m a big boy. I can handle this.” But he felt exhausted already, his depression creeping back in more and more the longer he sat under Adeyemi’s stare.

"Face it, traumatic bonding is your middle name."

“ _I’m fine_.”

Adeyemi huffed and took out his phone to check his messages. He watched Eames point his gaze at the table. “Still, he’s got debts that need repaying, especially for ever trying to corrupt you. Bad, bad move.” He hushed Eames before he could argue the point. “He’s being taken straight to Fischer’s Hospital. They’ll sort him out. In the meantime, you should rest, Eames.”

“Right... Sure.”

Adeyemi stood and stretched. “Well, I’m going to check and see if everything’s alright at the hospital. He should be drooling in a straightjacket by now,” he snickered, and held up his hands at the look Eames gave him. “Yeah, yeah, Eamesie, I know. You want me to paint his toes and bake cupcakes with him, I got it.”

Eames followed him to the door. “Thanks for the patch up job… again.”

“We’ve left doors in worst shape before, haven't we? So quit complaining and say thanks for the favor.”

“Sure, thanks.”

Eames turned to go to his bedroom, knowing that Adeyemi would let himself out, but he was surprised by the grip Adeyemi had on his arm, keeping him still.

Adeyemi pointed a finger at Eames’ face. “Remember, this time,” he said, his voice rough and deep. “Leave the case alone. I mean that, it’s over. Understand?”

“O-of course… Sure…” Eames massaged his arm when Adeyemi let go. “Hear you loud and clear.”

“Good boy.” Adeyemi grinned and patted Eames’ shoulder again. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt sniffing where you don’t belong, mate. Okay?”

“Right.”

“I’ll call you.”

“Sure. Thanks again.” Eames watched him leave, not feeling very much at ease.

+ 

  


	23. Chapter 23

 

+

 

The twenty-four-hour news channel was replaying Peter Browning's press conference about the botched attack at his event as Eames cleaned the floors in silence, lamenting the blood staining the bathroom rug and the quilt in the closet.

He resigned himself to the fact that he would not sleep at all. Tonight, or ever, perhaps. Not here in this house where every memory and every inch of space now tarnished.

He headed back to the kitchen for a glass of water.

Adeyemi’s phone lay on the table, forgotten.

It looked almost too plain and too cheap for Adeyemi's tastes, considering the one he’d last seen on Adeyemi recently. Eames picked it up, but thought against snooping.

He startled when his own phone rang.

Eames didn’t recognize the number. He cleared his throat. “Hello?”

“Eames! Oh, thank god! It’s Yusuf!”

Eames rubbed his face and sighed, his chest aching. “Look—”

“I’m _so_ sorry. I had no idea Adeyemi had me wiretapped.”

“ _What_?”

“Have to use a bloody _burner_ phone! I’m in the office now. My apologies for whispering, but I don’t know what else in this heap has also been bugged. It’s embarrassing! _Me_ , hoodwinked by Watergate-esque spying technology! I may as well end it all now befor—”

“Yusuf, slow down. I thought you told Ariadne.”

“I did! And when she went to our boss, he told her he already knew. How I haven’t been fired? I have no bloody clue. But you _must_ tell me what’s happened on your end.”

Eames paced slowly, his exhaustion needing him to set all of the world and this case to very back of his mind. He loathed giving up, but he had to. “Look, I’m tired. Why the hell did you call me?”

“Hold on.” Eames heard typing and a muffled buzzing sound. “I got my hands on surveillance footage from the Browning event I need to sift through for Ariadne. But anyways, well, I _had_ been trying to call you for days, actually! I thought you were dead! Do you know how that feels? That I could have led a great man to his untimely?”

“Well, you didn’t. You actually saved my life. Thank you for that. I owe you.”

“Right, right.” Yusuf paused, lowering his voice. “Anyways, I’d originally called to tell you that I had made one hell of a few _massive_ breakthrough in this case—”

“Yusuf—”

“—and since I’m probably most definitely in danger of getting sacked, the second I get through this footage I’m handing everything over to the team. Looks like we had the wrong assumption about who Browning is. I’m just… really, _really_ glad you two didn’t get hurt. Let me rewind this a bit… Okay. So. Those pills Arthur was taking, that you wanted me to find?”

Eames sighed. “You don’t have to look for them anymore. He’s—”

“Good, because he needs to stay very, _very_ far away from those pills, or they will make him mental. _More_ mental…”

Eames paused. “What do you mean?”

“ _Hydrosomnacin quetiapine_? Known as SomnacinHQ to literally no one on earth, for how underground it’s been. Eames, _it’s the bloody missing link_!” He forced his voice lower even as his excitement still boiled over. “Those pills are toxic! And they’re behind all of the weird shit, and the scary shit and everything to do with the killings and just—This is it. Boom. I blew the fucking lid all the bloody way off of this case!”

Eames nearly fell into his chair when he pulled it out from the table to sit with a pen and pad ready. He was wide awake now. “Tell me everything. What did you find?”

“Where to begin! I mean it, it was like we were chipping at a boulder and one crack sent water exploding out of it everywhere!” He lowered his voice, trying to rein in his excitement. So, I was in the middle of trying to cross-reference the other victims,” he whispered, “ _and_ the ones you both had already linked, _and_ Arthur’s mother—I have been extremely busy—when you’d called about this drug. Eames?

“Yes?”

“Somnacin’s been marketed as an all-purpose drug for treating mental illnesses. Anything from Arthur’s schizophrenia to post-partum depression. But the reality? Any sort of minor imbalance in a patient, and that drug will _exacerbate_ it into a severe state, and it’s extremely addictive. One of the test subjects from the latest study, I read, who tried it for his anxiety said that he developed extreme OCD and was convinced that if he stopped his routines and this medication, that the CIA was going to murder his wife and children!

“ _Then_ , another said that every time she tried to stop taking Somnacin, the drug’s withdrawal symptoms were so bad that it actually made her mental state deteriorate to the point that she was convinced she’d die if she changed medications. Of course, when the medical staff at her hospital helped her through her withdrawal and got her on a different medication, she said it was almost like she’d never had a mental condition to begin with, Eames. Whatever Arthur does in future, he should not ever let himself come into contact with hydrosomnacin quetiapine ever again. It’s a total scam of the worst imaginable.”

“How have we never heard of it before? Surely there must have been trials? Studies? Arrests? A medication like this would be snatched from the shelves in a heartbeat and laughed out of any FDA screening.”

“Recalled a total of six times.”

“How is that possible, Yusuf?”

There was a pause as Yusuf rewound his footage again. “Okay. Are you sitting? You ought to be sitting when you hear this, Eames.”

“I am.”

“Over and over again? The drug was rebranded after recall, its parent company scrapped and relocated with brand new employees, management, etc, and then simply… given to patients all over again, as if nothing had happen.”

Eames sat back, his pen forgotten. “But… _how_?”

“One word, Eames: Money. Well… _two_ words: Money _and_ … murder,” Yusuf whispered dramatically. “I did some digging into its history—All documents off-record and more than a few, I had to crack some pretty impressive codes on! The pharmaceutical company that first produced them? Get this Eames. These are the names of the employees.” 

Yusuf read off the names of a dozen people as Eames had an emotional fit listening. All of those names, he knew well from Arthur’s mental tally of hits.

“Sound familiar? Even back then, there were problems with the dosage and the pill was scrapped, until a bill was passed in Congress, drafted and pushed by several senators and representatives – you know where I’m going with this – that called for the deregulation of certain chemicals once banned by the FDA, giving the drugs new legs to be even more powerful than before. Of course, even after that break, _more_ problems arose, to the point where those same senators and representatives drafted _another_ bill to put those chemicals _back_ on the banned list, because the side effects and contaminations were just too unbelievably severe.”

“And then,” Yusuf was saying, as Eames’ head reel, “one politician was killed in a car wreck; the other ‘committed suicide’ several months later, and the other two were shot during ‘burglary attempts.’ Bullshit, right? Well it gets weirder from there.”

“Jesus…” He thought back to Mallorie Cobb, and to a certain six-year-old boy who had depended on her to care for his precarious condition, even that young. 

Yusuf spoke after a long pause, his voice muffled and slowing. “Whoa… Eames?”

“I’m here, I’m here.”

“Good, because…” Yusuf voice was low, deadly serious as he moved about. “I just saw our boss on this surveillance footage shooting Arthur and letting Dominic Cobb walk… right past him… right out of the door, Eames.”

“Right. Wait…” Eames stumbled, feeling as if all the blood was rushing from his body to the floor. “What?” 

“Oh my god,” Yusuf breathed. “Oh shit… This isn’t good, Eames.”

“No, no, no, don’t panic! Who knows you have this?”

“Ariadne. She has no idea what I just saw—”

“Back up everything, tell someone you’re sick and leave as soon as possible.”

“But Eames, if I’m not here, he’ll know what I’ve seen. You… you don’t really think he’s… I mean. He’s been working with us for… for years! He… He can’t be…”

“Yusuf, listen.” He grimaced. “Hang on to this phone, backup every shred of evidence you have somewhere where he doesn’t have access, and when you’re in your car, you call me.”

Eames nearly smashed the phone in his grip. The shout, the curse that forced its way out of his throat only restrained itself long enough to disconnect the call. He had to set it down and put distance between himself and this kitchen. He circled the living room, fighting back the urge to punch down every wall in his house. 

Adeyemi. His director, his partner, his… friend. Whom he’d trusted easily for years. All of the work they’d done together, how they butted heads and always come out on top… All some long and elaborate lie.

How long had that man been corrupt— _if_ he was corrupt. It only just occurred to Eames that it was possible Adeyemi hadn’t known who Cobb was, and had seen Eames and Arthur and had simple drawn the wrong conclusions… 

The truth was made crystal clear for Eames when Adeyemi’s phone vibrated on the table.

A call from an unlisted number. Eames flipped the phone open without hesitation.

He masked his voice, deeper and rougher to match the director’s. “Yeah?”

“Is it done? Was he dead yet?”

“Who?”

“Don’t fuck with me, Adeyemi. Who else? _Eames_. Had the little psycho bitch killed him yet or what?”

Eames’ stomach dropped. 

“Well? Listen, pal, if your plan didn’t work, you will be dealing with one very disgruntled employer.”

He started at the phone in shock, and as his brain processed what he'd heard, another thought came to him. 

He knew this voice. This crisp, corporate voice, with its edge and its smug confidence. He'd heard it on the news, just minutes before on a loop. Peter Browning.

“Hello? You there?” The man huffed. "What, do I need to replace you too? First Cobb and the boy, and now you?"

“Yeah, yeah—No, he wasn’t.”

“ _No_? Damn! Told you you should have waited. Come on, Adeyemi, you promised me you could do better than Cobb and _this_ is what I get instead? What am I paying you for? Listen, this isn't as easy as it used to be. You light the fire and you _wait_ , you don't just rush in ten minutes later." He sighed. "The kid wasn’t off his meds long enough.”

“Right…”

“Well, that ship has sailed. Is your man Eames still a problem or can we move on to Cobb now?”

“No… Not at all, _mate_.”

“Are you sure, Idris," the man condescended, "because I can have you replaced too, and for much less cash.”

Eames gripped the phone hard, enraged. "Positive."

He hung up, and threw the phone at the wall, shattering it. 

He grabbed his phone, his keys, his coat and the duffle bag still in the living room, now heavier with his and the gun Arthur had taken from Cobb. 

He didn’t have a plan, but Arthur was out there, alone and suffering under Adeyemi’s thumb. He’d be slaughtered like the rest of the livestock, just another loose-end, a scapegoat, in fact, if Eames didn’t buck up and get ahead of this nightmare. 

Eames slammed the back door as he left for the hospital. He was weaving through the scatterings of early morning traffic on his way to Bethesda when Yusuf called back. “Were you successful?”

“Just barely! I was stepping into the elevator when I saw Adeyemi knocking on my door. I don’t think he saw me drive off, but Eames, I can’t be sure. Should I come to you?”

“No, no, my house is a time bomb. Adeyemi…” He gripped the wheel harder. “It’s not safe there. What are your options?”

“I can shack up with the buddy helping me hide the backups. You?”

“I’m getting Arthur and I’m getting the hell out of here.”

“What? Eames, that’s impossible!” He paused to blow his horn. “I’m not saying the Fischer’s Hospital is the most secure and breakout-free, it’s just the simple fact that you would be, in effect, trying to bloody sneak past the team, the security itself, _and_ walk away somehow with _the_ most important patient there! It can’t be done!”

“The hell it can’t, and you’re going to help me. Find a hole and get me through it. I’ll call you once I’m there.”

“Oh,” Yusuf groaned, “this sounds… wildly terrifying…” He sighed, mulling it over. “Okay, fine, I’ll try—”

“Thank you—”

“— _however_ , there’s still a lot that I haven’t told you yet.”

“Go on, then.” 

“So a few names stuck out the most during my searches. Who owned that company before it went up in smoke, and all the companies that sprung up since then? Things like that. Eames, it’s—” 

“Peter Browning, yeah, I figured that out.”

“Then guess who was one of the lead psychiatrists pushing this faulty pill on patients and into mental health facilities since its inception?”

Eames nodded, his heart feeling as if it had turned to stone in his chest. “Margret Harris.”

“Bingo!—God damn it, how am I in traffic this early—Yes, Margret Harris, Eames.”

Eames massaged his chin, shaking his head. He eyed his rearview mirror before changing lanes. “What I don’t understand is, if she knew that this pill was terrible, how on earth could she… She’s been medicating Arthur for years, Yusuf. He was a child.”

“One child out many, throughout the years, Eames. Only remarkable difference is that over these long years, Arthur is the only child who is still alive to talk about it. These… these side effects, blackouts, heart problems, insomnia, dehydration, these things are shit for adults and were lethal to those child test subjects! And to think that six years ago, we thought we had a serial kidnapper on our hands and then when the evidence started to melt into this Black Mamba case, we thought it was Arthur. Eames, between Dominic Cobb and him? What if Mallorie Cobb knew a hell of a lot more than we think?”

“Precisely! After all, she…” His mouth fell slack. “She’s a child psychiatrist,” he realized, his voice low, shocked. “Those children… When I interrogated Arthur, he knew nothing about them! It was her! Holy hell, Yusuf… She’s been pulling strings this whole time.”

“ _Was_ and sometimes is a child psychiatrist, but not always. And yeah, that’s what I’d originally thought too. She knows the drug is shit and I have no doubt she’s linked to those children. However, her name turned up in one of the reports I have in my trunk, as well a few of the others, about twenty other shrinks to be more specific. Over half of them, by the way, have been killed, Eames… Silenced. So there is a huge possibility that she may very well find herself dead more sooner than later if the cover ups must continue.”

“Entire thing, all those… bodies… it’s all just one big bloody cover up.” Eames felt as if he were a second away from getting sick. He nearly missed the exit. “They found a drug they could use to funnel money out of hospitals, patients, clients, their families… And then killed whoever stood in their way.”

“Exactly,” Yusuf answered, the sound of a large trunk muffling him for a moment. “Two bullets in the chest. It started six years ago, that trend. Prior to that they were getting killed in more freak accidents, but once Dr. Phillips sent this letter—I’ll send to you once I’m at Chuck’s—threatening to go public with documents and testimonials from the patients of several other doctors, these shootings began.”

“So I suppose Mr. Browning stopped caring about whether or not the deaths were suspicious.”

“In fact, public hits have probably kept most of these people quiet, but they were killed over the years, regardless. Even the fucking people Harris butchered! The only reason why you couldn’t make a connection before was because those people weren’t on any list. Arthur Harris was let loose on the public without medication at random, Eames. The biggest mistake Mallorie – or Margret, _whoever_! – made throughout all of this? I spent the greater half of yesterday evening hacking into her emails. She was forwarding Arthur’s emails to her husband. It’s all there! Arthur would beg her to refill his bottle, but she would always say ‘It’s not time yet.’ She knew what would happen! She fucking knew he’d go nuts on some random person, Eames! She’s a vulture! And Dominic Cobb let this happen, or could have even ordered her to let this happen. Or, hell, it could have been Peter Browning himself!”

“Or our old friend. We have to go public with this the minute I get Arthur back.”

“Oh I’m not finished yet.” All the excitement drained from Yusuf’s voice. “I found out who Arthur’s real mother was. That woman in the photo you sent me?” Yusuf’s sigh fizzled over the line. “Well, that _was_ her…”

“ _And_?”

“She died in a mental hospital right around the time that Arthur would have been four or five. Killed herself. The interviews with her friends and family all say that she’d been a healthy, well-adjusted woman who’d suffered from only minor depression after her first son died and she and her first husband had divorced. Everything changed when she was remarried. They barely heard from her, then. Now guess who her second husband was? I’ll give you a hint. Her name was Katrina… Browning.”

Eames nearly rear-ended the van in front of him. “What?”

“Yeah. Katrina Browning.

“Peter Browning’s…”

“Yeah. Bloody hell, right? Guess who her psychiatrist was?”

Eames had to steady his pounding heart, letting the dull, orange glow of the street lamps flicker over him as he drove. he sat back. “Please don’t tell me it was who I think it was, Yusuf. Anyone but her.”

“Well, I won’t say anything, then, because you already know.”

Eames felt like his heart was being torn in half, thinking of Arthur. “Cobb’s wife killed Arthur’s mother…”

“Technically? She killed herself, but… pretty much, yes. Mallorie Cobb had been medicating Katrina throughout her marriage to Browning. She’d given this woman the medication that had turned her depression into pure madness, and I’m pretty sure that might be where Arthur’s issues stem from, because her medical records said that she was prescribed this medication before her pregnancy, during, and after. The first time she tried to kill herself, Arthur was a year old. She was placed in hospital care two years later.” Gravel crunched under his car’s tires. “I’m here, Eames—Don’t do anything rash until I at least figure out where in the hospital they're keeping Arthur.” 

“Fine.” But Eames was already nearing Bethesda’s city limits, the grand, sprawling wings and stout towers of the hospital peering up on the horizon as he ended the call.

+

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay. Life's been super hectic and my head's in a fog because of sads, so I apologize if this chapter is rubbish. @_@ It'll be proofread in the morning so sorry also for typos. My life is a mess but hopefully this chapter isn't. T_T

+

 

Fischer's Hospital for Psychiatric Care and Research was the one of biggest of its kind in the country. With units for children, long-term care for the elderly and young alike, even a school with dormitories for study in the research facility, and a wing for the criminally insane that had been instrumental in reshaping the treatment and sentencing of such criminals—or it _was_. 

Since the great Maurice Fischer's passing, the hospital had more than fallen into poor management; privatized and overrun. 

He parked in the garage across the street, saving a space for Yusuf's car. He was there in ten minutes.

Eames leaned against the hood of his own, crossing his arms in the cold as a mist of frigid fog blew over the cars as Yusuf's friend parked her utility van and welcomed him in. "What have you got for me?"

Yusuf stepped out frowning full of nerves, pulling the side doors open. "I still think this is a ludicrous mission. We're all screwed if this can't be done." 

Inside, it was filled all sorts of equipment, both legal and absolutely illegal even for a federally protected hacker. Eames glared.

Yusuf's hands rose quickly. "Don't look at me! This is Ntobi's van!"

Eames' brow arched. " _The_ Ntobi Nuru?" The young and fiery Kenyan national was a hacker with a rap sheet longer than Yusuf's, and far more glamorous, with her bright nail polish, her dyed, tumbling, snow white hair still in thick rollers under a scarf, and plush lip gloss even darker than her skin glistening even in the cold, early hour. "Well, Ms. Nuru, pleasure meeting you at last."

She gave Yusuf a teasingly scolding look. "I hope I am able to say that the feeling is mutual?” She glanced at Yusuf before arching her fine brow at Eames. 

Eames extended his hand to shake. “When this is all over, you should consider taking that offer for a job. A lot more fun than prison in Mombasa?”

Ntobi smiled sweetly. “But where is the fun in an office job with meager pay, Mr. Eames? Yusuf and you both look positively miserable.” She eyed Eames’ stiffness and bruises with pity and sat cross-legged beside Yusuf in the van’s open doorway. She retrieved one of many laptops out of a coded drawer. She extended her hand to him, her skin like rich soil after a rain, and wiggled her fingers teasingly in invitation. “Come and see how I have fun.”

+

 

Hacking was a weapon Eames simply had no patience for. Like a grueling game of chess, a silent war even, and fought against firewalls and any sliver of a weakness therein, cloaking Ntobi and Yusuf like spies in the hospital’s system, before dismantling even more firewalls, back and forth, only to break for a moment of coffee and quick discussion on tactics. 

Eames paced in the small space between the cars, unable to stand the cramped space and rapid work while his own hands were idle. There cigarettes still jammed in the overly stuffed glove compartment in his Tucson called to him beyond the streams of keyboard clicking until it all but stopped.

Yusuf and Ntobi both stared at their screens, but Yusuf's jaw was on the floor of the garage while Ntobi smiled proudly at her own. 

Eames hurried to peek over their shoulders, his own expression mirroring Yusuf's.

Ntobi had two separate windows open; the smaller of the two showing the vast array of security camera footage currently recording on the hospital's guard houses, just as Yusuf's laptop showed on his own single window. But the second, larger window on Ntobi's was of the electrical grid, but not just the hospital's.

"You're going to shut down all of Bethesda," Yusuf at last whispered in awe. He looked from Eames to her in shock. "Bloody hell, woman... I love you. Good work!"

“Oh, thank you, pumpkin.” She laughed sweetly, kissing Yusuf's blushing cheek, before her voice deepened with seriousness. "You owe me mandazi for the next six months. And you know precisely from where."

He sputtered. "You got it!" He looked to Eames with eager eyes as she turned the laptop more in his view. 

Eames eyed her with something akin to fear. “I’m buying you the whole restaurant. This is fantastic.” His eyes swept to Yusuf’s screen. “What’s happening here?”

“Not sure,” Yusuf muttered. “Looks like the camera in Arthur’s room’s been disabled.”

It was true. The hospital’s many wings were streaming with scrubs and lab coats here and there, but in one particular corridor, only guards patrolled with assault rifles. And in the middle of those boxes, a black square sat ominously like a void.

Eames couldn’t dwell on it. He needed to focus. “What happens if you shut off all power, Ntobi?” 

“The residents of Fischer's Hospital will get to see the stars,” she answered wistfully, in her deeply accented voice. 

Eames paused, frowning. “But they’re required to have generators… Oh, bloody budget cuts. Oh course!”

Yusuf snorted, still musing his hair anxiously. “No wonder Robert gets to drive such a fancy car when I get a clunker,” he griped. “The snob.”

“The generators are at least twenty years old?” Eames asked.

Ntobi and Yusuf nodded together as Yusuf answered. “That means a delay while those old heaps rattle to life. Give or take a few minutes. A glitch in the security cameras, the elevators, the key card readers? Ought to be accredited to the outage. We may all get through this without Adeyemi coming after us _faster_ than he clearly is now.”

Eames nodded slowly, thinking. “Actually… not quite… He had plans for me tonight that didn’t exactly go as planned. And I doubt he’d shoot me outright in the middle of a crowded hospital. There’s no way I’m going to be able to pull off rushing in the minute the lights go out from here, and I’m not overly fond of long staircases if Arthur’s all the way up in the fifth floor of a building loaded with security guards and then out with him over my shoulder before the generators kick in. But if I show up unannounced, claiming perhaps that I was oh so frightened and just needed to see that he was put away so I could sleep peacefully tonight… I could take full advantage of the blackout with that kind of a head start.”

“You’re mental,” Yusuf shouted. “You shouldn’t be seen at all!”

“Listen, Yusuf, I’ve been beat up more in the last two days than has happened in years, but that is nothing at all compared to what Arthur might be experiencing _right now_. I’m no good to him charging into that building with my empty guns drawn. I have to play this right. If he sees me, if I could pull off this act well enough, then when the lights go out, I’ll have been reassured and had my trust in Adeyemi, and whoever else on the team is corrupted, reaffirmed as well and be long gone when all hell breaks loose.”

Ntobi sighed, leaning on Yusuf. She handed him a burner phone from another drawer. “Good luck, then. We’ll be texting you information, and have eyes on you if you need us.”

+

 

Even this time of morning, Fischer’s Hospital was alive and buzzing and Eames didn’t have to guess why. 

He hurried out of the drizzle to the main sliding doors to an overly bright lobby, counting the seconds, his phone in hand ready to give Yusuf the order for the first planned outage. 

He took a deep breath and braced himself to lie his way past the front desk security and nurses. A guest wouldn’t get through to visit a patient at this hour, no reporters were anywhere to be seen, and how strange it would be if he were to be honest and inform them that he really was here as an agent, badgeless, long after the ‘real’ agents would have no doubt been here for an hour or more. He’d get booked into one of these rooms himself in heartbeat with that line. 

He shook his coat and offered a smile to the stout woman who stood upon seeing him.

“Eames?”

But that smile faltered, seeing Ariadne in his peripheral with her car keys and phone in hand, headed for the door. 

She was storming right to him now. 

His heart stopped. He wanted to turn tail or call for a plan-B that didn’t exist. He took a step forward, but his words stuck in his throat.

She took his arm with a grip that surprised him and guided him past the desk with a flash of her badge down towards the long corridor. 

“I don’t know what you’re planning,” she muttered low, “but—”

His hands balled into fists. “Yeah, well, that makes two of us.” 

They were headed for a single restroom behind one of the empty lobbies. A janitor in headphones was still polishing the floors just near them when she shouldered open the swinging door and dragged Eames inside, locking the door behind them.

Small as a mouse, Ariadne still stood firm in her posture and with more control than Eames had ever seen in her. She stood close, eyeing him intensely and chewed on her lip as she crossed her arms, her voice quiet in the harsh florescent lighting. “What the hell is going on, Eames? Why are you here?”

He was surprised by the hint of fear tacked onto that question. Fear knit her brow as well, hardening it. “Well, Ms. Gray, I’d bloody well like to know what’s going too, but unlike you, I have no strings to pull or tales to spin.”

She frowned. “What, and I do? Don’t pretend like you’re innocent. I’ve gotten that enough from Idris.”

Eames tilted his head, frowning back. “What are you talking about?”

“Harris’ escape from that interrogation room? Nash’s death?”

“What about it?”

She shook her head. “I counted on you, Eames. Whatever you and he were up to with Harris, I will get to the bottom of it, and if I have to close this case by myself, I will, Eames. It’s over—”

He waved his hands. "Whoa, whoa, hang on. Adeymei sent _me_ out to pasture for a single lapse in judgment, and at this point, I’m glad he did. I know working with Harris was completely beyond the scope of the law, but I’m damn proud of that choice, because without Arthur, you and I, and God knows how many others would be all dead in the same bloody cover up, _right now_. _You_ on the other hand, have been working hand in hand with Adeyemi. If anyone should know what he’s been up to, it’s you." Eames looked away, roughly massaging his stubbled cheeks. “You think you can trust him, that Adeyemi’s right and I’m the one playing on the wrong side, well, what else can I say to you?”

“No, no, no. I don’t trust either one of you. Both of you had… Adeyemi tried to have the footage from the interrogation room destroyed.”

“What? Why?”

Her glare soften, but only more confusion flooded her face. “What other cover up are you talking about, Eames?”

“Just tell me what you know, Ariadne.” He took her by the arms gently, his heart racing now. “Tell me. There are lives at stake, including my own.”

At that, her eyes widened. “By who? Cobb?”

“Cobb, yes, _and_ your boss.” At her frown, he reached into his coat pocket and dumped the plastic bag of the broken remains of Adeyemi’s burner phone into her hand. “He was counting on Arthur to be off his meds long enough to snap and kill me. And I will bet my life’s work that he’s had a hand in every single one of Arthur’s meltdowns, those random kills?”

“Oh my God…” 

“Where's Adeyemi now?"

She shrugged, at a loss. “Not here. I was on my way to contacting _you_ the second he left.” She rubbed her forehead. “Please tell me the truth, Eames. I _need_ to know that whatever you’ve done prior to today doesn’t mean that I can’t trust you. I’m sick of being in the dark.”

“Of course you can trust me. What did Yusuf tell you?”

She shifted her weight, and took her hair out of its knot to comb through it as she thought. She studied him, seeming to make up her mind. “Not enough!”.

He nodded, sighing. “Look, after I was sent home, Arthur found me, and he agreed to help me pursue his accomplice. Everything you think you know about him, anything Adeyemi may have told you, it’s all a part of a plot orchestrated by Peter Browning, enforced by Arthur and his _insane_ parents, _and_ Adeyemi. Now, when he became a part of it, I don’t know, Ariadne, but…”

Ariadne’s thoughts looked to be racing and battling behind her eyes. She shook her head slowly, her gaze on the wall behind him. “I think I do.” She implored him. “I think I know, Eames. Everything was going fine up until the day we had Harris in custody. It-It didn’t make any sense to me that Harris could have escaped those cuffs _that_ easily. I watched the tape back over and over. He broke them in seconds with nothing in his hands. How? And when I tried to talk Robert and the new guys, they thought I was crazy for dwelling on it, but it’s ridiculous not to examine it.”

He stepped closer. “What did you find?”

“I went to watch the video again but Adeyemi told me that the disk had been broken by mistake and it was gone now, but it was still right there on his flash drive a few days ago when I… Well, I broke into his office to get my own that I’d forgotten and picked his up by mistake. But when I’d believed that the only copy was gone, I went to the interrogation room and looked for myself. Tape residue. Under the table. It was still there!” She quickly swiped through her phone for the pictures she’d taken to show him. “Someone hid a key, somehow knowing, or at least hoping he’d find it.”

“To escape,” Eames breathed, replaying that video in his head. “To…” To kill Eames himself and escape, he thought, but he wasn’t alone in realizing that that didn’t make sense.

Ariadne’s expression mirrored his. "Maybe it was left for someone else on a prior escape attempt, maybe it could have been there for months, maybe Harris didn’t even know it was there until after you’d left the room, who knows. But he spent over a week with you, and you're alive.”

“Who the hell would be careless enough to plant a key and… No. No, no one would have left behind that kind of evidence, not after a man was killed and another let loose on the public, no. Nash stormed into that room for a reason.”

“But that’s impossible, I saw…”

“He took Arthur’s medication away. When?”

“He got it from Robert. They’d been talking about the doses. Nash was joking that he wanted to sell them or something and was asking Robert if he knew anything about black market pills prices, but when Robert kept ignoring him, he… followed me back when Adeyemi finished setting up the interrogation room. Holy shit, Eames. Idris planted the key?”

“You sent the tape to the lab?”

“Discretely? You bet,” she laughed short and humorlessly, her hand over her heart. “But I doubt they’ll find prints… Idris fooled all of us… Arthur Harris was with you all this time and never hurt you, but the second we show up, Arthur's been at your throat? And Idris _knew_ that. He had to. I wanted to go to you as soon as possible, but he kept… dragging his feet, talking about our backup." 

"Well, we both know why now.” 

“Eames, you have to leave. I already have an internal investigation in progress with that tape and the footage coverups. We can go to the board, and—”

“And Arthur will more than likely be dead by then, _and_ Yusuf, _and_ all the rest of us.” He texted Yusuf quickly. “Get on the phone with Adeyemi, send him a message to pick up food or something, anything, stall him. Yusuf is staging a blackout to get me past the security doors. Can you help me in this?”

“Of course.”

“Good. You get everyone far away from Arthur’s room. I’m getting him the hell out of here tonight.”

She smiled softly, breathless as she pushed her hospital guest pass at his chest. “Good to have you back, Eames.”

He held the door open once the coast was clear, his brow furrowed even as he quirked his lips. “Good to be back, Ariadne.”

+

 

They split up on the fourth floor, Ariadne to the elevator and Eames to the stairs up one level once Yusuf gave him the word that the security cameras were “glitching”. He paced on the dimly lit landing, ready when Ariadne opened the door wide enough for him to slip his foot through, catching it with his phone before it could lock again.

He peered through the sliver of space, seeing the police pairs gather with their replacements at the far end of the long corridor at its bend. Robert and Ariadne spoke softly with them, or rather Ariadne spoke to them as Robert scrolled his phone in his own world, waiting for the elevator. 

“Okay, Yusuf,” Eames muttered, trying to calm his racing heart as he sent his message, “let’s see what you and Ms. Nuru can do.” 

He let the door shut silently behind him, catching Ariadne’s eye as she and Robert left the cluster of guards for elevator. He moved towards the center room’s door and reached for the handle just as its red light went out first, followed by the sounds of the buildings heating units, elevators and keycards all shutdown, followed by the lights overhead. 

He could hear the guards cursing and shouting as they hurried to their posts, and let the breath he’d held slip free.

“Can I help you, son?”

The voice of guard standing post to the left of the door startled him as the guard reached for Eames’ arm in the dark.

It took far longer to subdue the guard than Eames would have liked to admit. He was an older man now and this guard was the sort of gym-obsessed breed of cop who, even older than Eames, still gave Eames a run for a his money as they wrestled in the dark. 

Huffing and wincing, Eames dragged the unconscious man into the bathroom and locked him in as the generators all kicked into gear. He limped, his hurts from the prior day like aftershocks from an earthquake as he pushed a table to bar the door to the room. 

He shielded his eyes when the generator’s dull, flickering light was turned on. He looked at Arthur, and quickly wished that he hadn’t. 

Arthur had looked both better _and_ worse on prior occasions, considering. At least Adeyemi’s happy helpers hadn’t been so quick to severely beat an already unconscious man, but where they’d shown some small sliver of restraint with him, the hospital had not. He’d been pumped full of drugs, clear as he slept with his eyelids open partially, like a days-old corpse, and had been left on a bed with nothing on but a straight-jacket and the straps on his ankles. 

Eames had to take a breath and stop the heavy brick of guilt in his stomach from slowing him down as he hurried close, almost afraid to check Arthur over for fear of what he may find.

But there was no bruising on Arthur’s hips or inner thighs. Eames wept in relief, cradling Arthur’s head, but it was short-lived. Shivers racked Arthur’s body, his lips and toes blueing. His hair was soaking wet, his sickly skin pale pink and blue in spots, cool to the touch. They’d striped him and hosed him down and left him in this cold room with his demons wreaking havoc in his head. Charming. 

Eames sat him up, shaking him hard. “Arthur? Come on, darling, we’ve got go.”

Arthur’s eyes open only for a moment before rolling back. Eames had to turn him on his side quickly. Arthur didn’t even have the frame of mind to cough, nearly choking as sick bubbled up from his mouth.

“It’s alright,” Eames whispered, watching him get sick again in his unconsciousness as he glanced up at the lights, his heart pounding, the seconds ticking by. “Come on, Yusuf,” he sighed, and quickly searched the room for clothes or even blankets, but found none. He glared at the bathroom door and grimaced, wondering what size the guard’s pants were. “Fuck it.”

He was figuring out the straps and buckles on the straightjacket when he heard Ariadne’s voice on the other side of the door, asking Robert to bring her a snack on his coffee run. He pulled the table back for her, returning to the bed to put the guard’s trousers on Arthur’s legs when she knocked.

“What the hell…” She looked around the room as he had, handing him a folded blanket and a small sweat set to dress Arthur in. 

“Oh thank god,” Eames muttered, quickly discarding the guard’s pants. “I was beginning to think this ‘grand hospital’ didn’t have these.”

She sputtered. “These were supposed to be spares for the road. He didn’t look like this when we brought him in. I swear. I rode in the ambulance with him myself! I saw what happened to him the last time he got picked up and didn’t want a repeat of that—Wait, don’t touch him yet.” She took out her phone quickly, taking pictures of Arthur and the room itself. “I can’t even imagine how this creepy place handles patients that they actually like,” she quipped, glaring at her pictures and taking more.

“Well, I don’t fault you for this,” he muttered angrily, swallowing back something akin to a growl when she stepped closer to help him slide Arthur’s arms into the thick shirt. “It was my mistake letting him go in the first place.”

She huffed. “What choice was there? Eames, I swear, next time—”

“Next time, do the opposite of what I did. Go with your gut, but be smart about it, which you have been. God knows what might happen if you cross Adeyemi head-on. We have no idea where anyone stands anymore.”

“Except Robert,” she quietly teased. “His phone is his allegiance. _Thankfully_.” Her own phone beeped. She took it out and read its message, her expression flat. “Adeyemi’s coming back.”

The fear that welled up inside Eames made him feel as if he would get sick right along with Arthur. “Go, go, go.” He wrapped Arthur in his coat, pocketing the socks and tossing the blanket over his shoulder before Arthur followed like a sack of rocks. “Distract him.”

“Okay, but Eames, I’m sorry. I’ll make this right.”

He glanced at her as Arthur shivered on, limp as Eames carried him. “I don’t doubt that. Look for my call in a day or two.”

Her brow furrowed with pity at Arthur, but she nodded curtly, just as the lights went out once more. 

Ariadne swung the door open, shouting to the guards, “Listen up, guys!” She moved quickly to the other end of the hall, drawing their attention away from Eames sneaking in the dark towards his phone as Yusuf’s text lit up the screen in the narrow space between the door to the stairs.

He carefully made his descent, mindful to listen to Arthur’s uneven breaths and his faint moaning as their hurried escape made him sick again.

Eames was easing him down to sit on the small cutout of a door’s landing to the side on some lower floor to quiet his fitful sleep when he heard a door open and close down below. He leaned against the wall, peering from the doorway to see another phone’s light glowing up the steps as a whistling man hurried up.

He stood quickly, pocketing his phone and covered Arthur’s mouth. He held his breath, closing his eyes and prayed that their shadowy corner was enough to keep them hidden from the one man they needed desperately to flee from. 

Adeyemi’s whistling and heavy footfalls echoed up the concrete stairwell louder and louder. He was scrolling on his phone when Eames peered around the corner again. 

His heartbeat pounded in his own ears and in his hands, Arthur was a dead weight. 

“Oi,” Adeyemi muttered on the phone in passing, “Robbie, I’m in the stairs, mate. I’m coming. Relax.”

Eames watched him, not daring to move an inch until the man was gone, only the generators were slowly kicking back to life again. He hefted Arthur up and prayed that Ariadne would be waiting for them at the bottom.

+

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to velificantes for the character of Ntobi Nuru!


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I HADN'T REALIZED HOW MUCH TIME HAD PAST. @_______@

+

 

Driving in the early morning through sleet and the beginnings of a thicker snowfall, Eames watched the sky lighten with the sunrise behind that ceiling of heavy clouds as he headed southwest into Virginia’s mountains.

He held Arthur’s limp hand in his grip as he weaved slowly through traffic and icy roads. The lamps lining the highway cast them in an orange glow. He glanced over at him, with half a mind to pull over just to count his shallow breaths.

Being a recluse wasn’t always so bad. Eames’ mother had a long held fear of Eames going off on a holiday alone and disappearing with no one to know where he was or whether he was safe or not, but it would serve him well now. No one, not even his mother, knew about his little cabin in the mountains. Signed under his eldest sister’s first name and his mother’s maiden name, it was where he’d done his best writing, his greatest fishing, and where his name and his past and his job with its horrors could just be tucked in his wallet and forgotten on the floor of his car.

He stopped in the town at the foot of the hills to gather supplies. Beyond, the growing slopes carpeted with trees were already covered in white as the tin roofs on the barns, the stables, and the quaint little houses were peppered with flakes that grew bigger and heavier as the wind shifted.

He pulled over off the salted street towards an backroad almost hidden entirely by low hanging branches in the thick woods. He chained the tires from his kit in the back of his car, seeing that the crowbar was missing. He had a good idea of who might have taken it. It made him smile even in the bitter air. It was a long drive from there, over a little creek and up a steep hill, climbing higher and circling the mountain beyond, past the occasional cabin and trailbridge.

Arthur inhaled deeply, slowly. He moaned, trying to will himself awake, but Eames hushed him, rubbing the back of his hand to soothe him.

He passed through a tunnel carved right into the rock, a shortcut around the little mountain's steepest side, getting closer.

The hand under his stirred and slowly moved. Sluggishly it covered his.

Arthur was blinking so unhurriedly that Eames could have assumed that he was still sleeping. But that stare, wavering as it was, found its way to Eames’ face and anchored there.

Eames squeezed his hand. “Hey.”

Arthur’s chest rose, his lungs filling; the dead awakening at last, it felt.

Eames furrowed his brow at him, his heart pounding with uncontrollable relief and care. “You in there, boy?”

Yes, he was. Or getting there at least, with every breath and every sleepy gaze at Eames.

+

 

The trees were all still shielding them from the bulk of the snow. It was going to turn into sleet within the hour, judging by the warm winds rattling the leaves. It was one relief, at least, that they wouldn’t find themselves trapped here. He quickly unloaded the supplies, dragging Arthur in first to the old, dusty couch.

He had to admit. Eames was worn down the bone, but he had the heat up and running in no time, with soup on the stove, and the wifi patched.

He was brushing his teeth when he heard a thud from the living room. “Arthur?”

Arthur was crawling towards the door.

“Hey, wait, come back.” He lifted him, avoiding the wild limbs that flew towards his face until Arthur gave him a good enough look.

“What the hell… is?”

“My cabin.”

Arthur moaned, pained and wobbling in Eames’ arms. He tried to survey their location, but couldn’t keep his eyes open. “Not your house.”

“No,” Eames said matter-of-fact, wincing from his own hurts as he got Arthur to his feet for a moment. That only made Arthur less cooperative. He carried him to the kitchen. “Let’s see if you can eat.”

“No,” Arthur growled, circling his stomach with his arms. He shivered, wobbling a little on the counter. “Eames, I don’t think your boss is a good person.”

“And I don’t doubt that. I’m sorry. I… If I had listened to you…”

“We’d be in the ground,” Arthur slurred, laughing breathlessly, his eyes wild. Eames had to catch him quick to stop him from rolling off the counter.

“I know, I know. I just—” He held Arthur’s arms, watching his head loll for a moment. “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

Arthur’s eyes were wide but dull, vacant when he came back. His grip on Eames’ sleeve, however, was airtight.

“Jesus, boy, you look like hell.” Eames had to pat away Arthur’s hand when Arthur reached up to rub a tear from his eye, knowing it would hurt to irritate the little bruise on his cheek.

Arthur startled when Eames dabbed it with a wet paper towel. He laughed. “It’s nothing I don’t deserve, Eames,” he said softly, trying not to slur his words. He swayed a little. “I killed people… Bang, bang… You know that, baby.”

“I know now that it was never really all your fault,” Eames blurted before it could stop himself. His own words shocked him to silence. He rubbed Arthur’s legs. Did he really, truly believe that now, or was he just saying that to fill the silence?

Arthur ran a shaky hand through his hair, revealing a scabbed over cut in his hairline. His smile was lopsided, tired. “I’m just glad that you… you came back for me.”

“Of course.”

Arthur sounded like a sleepy child, blinking slowly. “You believed me after all?”

Eames’ chest felt suddenly tight. He nodded, smiling faintly. “We’ve still got work to do. But first, you need to sleep off these drugs.”

Arthur nodded, still trying to rub the bruise off his face. “I’m very tired. Tired and sleepy aren’t the same things,” he began to ramble suddenly. “Humans are supposed to sleep on average eight hours, but who has time for—”

“I know, kid, I know.” Eames cut him off gently, softly whispering to Arthur and holding his face when the man began to nod off. “Let’s skip food for now and get you to bed.”

Arthur blinked rapidly, waking up a bit. “Oh, I’m okay. Sedation’s a fucking vacation compared to all those times I played stress ball for cops and feds,” he whispered, looking at Eames with an odd expression. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

Eames caught himself then. The way his thumbs rubbed Arthur’s cheeks, the way Eames’ brow was furrowed and his shoulders tight. He huffed out a short humorless laugh, feeling breathless under Arthur’s stare. “You know I’m a big worrier, Arthur. Wouldn’t be myself if I wasn’t.”

He slowly smiled, dimples forming under Eames’ thumbs. “I know,” he said softly, touching Eames’ heart. “I see you.”

Eames didn’t sleep at all that night, even though his body was exhausted. He felt as if he floated outside of himself. Unbalanced, watching Arthur sleep, until Arthur stirred. He woke up in Eames’ shirt and boxers with Eames flush to his side and his arm around him, protective, comfortable.

“Hey,” Eames whispered. He brushed Arthur’s hair out of his face before letting his arm fall across his waist again.

Arthur stared at him for so long that Eames braced himself for whatever delusion might be plaguing the boy. “You okay?”

Arthur stared longer, finally nodding against the pillow. “It’s quiet.”

“It’s still early. 4am. ”

Arthur tapped his forehead. “It’s quiet in here.”

“That’s…” Eames paused, glancing down at the arm Arthur draped across his.

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed, a move Eames found to be surprisingly pleasant. He tapped Eames’ arm. “You’re good medicine.”

+

 

Arthur wolfed down breakfast. He’d rolled up his sleeves to keep them away from the fountains of syrup he poured on his pancakes.

After the sixth, he paused, looking up at Eames. “You’re not eating?”

How could he? Eames sat back from his coffee with a sigh, frowning over at him. “Yusuf and I… We’ve solved the case. Did it— _He_ —did it, while we were in Delaware still.”

Arthur’s brow rose. He pulled Eames’ coffee mug across the table and filled it with cream. “You don’t sound very happy. Not at all actually.” He sat back as well, clasping his hands in his lap, trying to regain some of his old composure, but his back was still hunch and he had shopping bags under his dark eyes. His skin was still sickly pale and his gaze still clouded with the reseeding waves of the heavy sedatives. “Let me guess… It’s even worse than we thought it was.”

“You want the good or the bad first?”

Arthur pushed his plate away, taking a deep breath. “I don’t think my temper can handle bad news first. I don't have my buffer anymore." He rubbed his ear. "I hated my medication but I could really use it now."

"No. Absolutely not. That stuff is toxic." At Arthur's quirked brow, he explained what Yusuf had told him. "We've got no clue how severe your condition is or even what sort of conditions you have. You're still burning off sedatives now and whatever else the hospital put in you, so we won't know for sure until then."

Arthur's eyes were tight, his brow furrowed deeply in his surprise. "Jesus fucking Christ. And that's _not_ bad news?"

"Not the worst, no."

Arthur nodded slowly, looking more than a little scared and it couldn't be helped, given how far he'd spiraled on and off of those pills. "Give me the good first.”

“Well… Yusuf found your mother. That lady in the picture, that… that was her.”

Arthur dropped his gaze to the table, his shoulders sinking. “Was?”

Eames nodded. “Was.”

Arthur picked up his coffee mug but put it done. He did the same several times before finally taking a sip. He set it down. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry—”

“You didn’t kill her. How did she die?”

Eames combed his fingers through his hair. “Do you remember how you came to live with the Cobbs?”

Arthur uncrossed his legs. “No.” He cracked his knuckles. “It was Cobb then? Martin?”

“No.”

Arthur’s brow rose. “Huh. Okay, good…” He rubbed his forehead, looking pained.

“Do you need more sleep? It’s raining out. The roads are all shit until it stops. We could talk later.”

“Tell me everything. Now. Please.”

Eames tapped his fingers, making up his mind. “You and Cobb, and well, his wife, for that matter. _Particularly_ his wife, actually, were all involved in a massive cover up led by Peter Browning.”

“Martin… _Cobb_ , said he wanted him dead. So we were fired from our posts and Cobb’s got a score to settle.” He hummed out a laugh, but he grimaced then. “Are we still on the good news, or…?”

“He’s your father, kid. Peter Browning. He’s a sorry piece of shit at business, and so is Cobb and his wife, and one bad choice, after another bad choice, led you here.” He met Arthur’s eyes, his chest aching at the emptiness he saw on that face, but it had been a long night for them both. Thinking back on what he’d learned, processing it, he too could feel anger swelling in his gut, growing. “I don’t understand why people are willing to do the things they do for money. Your father was already successful in _illegal_ drug cartels. Dominic Cobb, _he_ was already up to his neck in crime, in bodies, in extortion in… in… in being Browning’s guard dog, basically. And your mother? Who knows what sort of person she was, we’ll never know because for the hell of a few bucks and a horrific medication scam, she…” He sighed. “She’s dead.”

Arthur blinked. “I got that part.”

“She was drugged to death. She was unhappy with Browning’s life and he locked her up, just like you were, and she was drugged until…”

“Okay.”

“No, it’s not. You…” He steepled his hands on the table, searching through his thoughts for one that made sense. “Mallorie Cobb needed money for her education and Dominic Cobb, for all his… bountiful employment endeavors had none. And as much as they are responsible for you, it was your father, your real father, who dragged you _all_ down into this nightmare. He got them in his pockets. For Cobb, I supposed killing was perfectly fine, but for Mallorie… Who can say.”

“I can. She wouldn’t hurt anybody.”

“She has hurt perhaps hundreds of people, Arthur… Including you… Including your mother… And the children she medicated, just like you. Who weren’t born to receive the drug as well as you did, but—”

“Stop.”

“Arthur—”

“Stop.” He shook his head. “You aren’t making any sense.” He leaned on his folded arms, his brow furrowed. “My mother was—”

“Mallorie Cobb was her physician and she drove her to kill herself. You were… You were given to them. You were allowed to be drugged, your condition exacerbated for _her_ continued research on a drug that was already being terminated over and over again.” He had to think fast. “Do you remember times when you’d run out of that medication before and Mal Cobb wouldn’t refill your prescriptions.”

“That doesn’t—It doesn’t… It doesn’t fucking kill people.”

“But you went through hell the whole time you waited, didn’t you? And Adeyemi wasn’t helping at all. They did to you what they did to… her. Yusuf has proof. Records. Mallorie Cobb stopped giving your mother that drug the week before she killed herself. It drove her to the edge. Maybe she knew something, maybe she’d plan to leave him and expose them. Who knows, but… In their care, you were molded into… you.” He swallowed. “He turned his own kid into a gun and once you were out of bullets, he tossed you over a bridge. He has cut the Cobb’s loose too, but… that’s all we know for now, but it’s enough to indict them both, and Adeyemi, and Peter Browning. We’re closing in—but,” he hurried to reach for Arthur’s hands were they were gripping his hair. “Hey, hey… we’re closing in. We’re going to get them. We’ll make them…”

Arthur stood up and turned as if he were going to move to the living room, but he stood there, lost.

“Arthur?”

Arthur’s chest swelled as he took the deepest breath he could and exhaled. He shook his head. “No.”

“Arthur—”

“He’s wrong. Yusuf’s wrong,” he stated softly. “She would never… do that to me. Mallorie Cobb, she… I was… her son. I was _her boy_ , Eames.”

“I know, Arthur. I’m sorry.”

He pointed at Eames. “You’re _wrong_. She took care of me. Cobb never knew what to do with me but she was always, _always_ there for me.” His hands balled up into fist. “She raised me.”

Eames quietly stood, keeping his distance.

Arthur huffed out a shaky laugh. “That’s not right. No.”

“Yusuf has all the information, Arthur. Mallorie Cobb—”

Arthur spun on him and slammed his hand on the table. “No! Mallorie Cobb raised me, Eames. She _loves_ me! No matter what I’ve done and all the mistakes I’ve made, she’s always loved _me!_  Even when I told her that I knew the truth, that I wasn’t her real son, even then, she still did. I tried to give her my kidney when she got sick and I murdered six people for theirs because they were listed as organ donors on their licenses, Eames, just so that I could take care of her. She is _not_ the kind of person who would… she wouldn’t… If she’d known what those pills did and how bad they were, she—”

“She’s been a top figure in their production and consumption for years, Arthur. Browning paid for her education,” he stressed, “he gave her and Dominic their careers… She is, or was, as much in Browning’s pocket as her husband. I’m sorry.”

“But…” Arthur’s voice cracked, raw and devastating as he looked small drowning in his pain. He pointed at Eames, his chest heaving now, his expression wild. “You said those pills k-killed my mother, Eames. Margret couldn’t have known that and still given them to me. She’d never hurt anyone!”

Eames sighed, aching to go to him and give him comfort. “Mallorie was your mother’s psychiatrist when—”

“No. No…”

Arthur’s hands shook, eyes eerily vacant. Eames watched as he fumbled with the back of the chair trying to keep calm. He tucked it close to the table. He picked up his plate before setting it back down and arranged his fork and the coffee cup neatly beside it.

He reached up to rub his ear but didn’t make it before his hands balled into fist.

“Arthur—”

“No!” Arthur shouted, tearing at his hair. He picked up the plate and threw it at the wall before flipping the table. He screamed, reaching for a cup on the countertop and tried to throw it, but Eames snatched it quickly, wrapping his arms around Arthur, pinning him against the sink.

“I’ll kill her!” Arthur thrashed to get free, screaming like a wounded, pained thing, small and vibrating in Eames’ arms. “I’ll fucking tear her throat out!”

He struggled. They stumbled against the wall, but Eames still gripped him tight, feeling Arthur’s roar tremble through him before he broke down. He’d never seen him like this, and doubted he ever would again. His heart broke for Arthur.

“I loved her! I _loved_ her, Eames! She taught me how to love. How could she do this? I don’t understand!” He wiped at his eyes roughly and covered his face. “This isn’t real… You’re… Please don’t trick me, Eames. It’s not funny,” he begged, his eyes wide and desperate as they searched Eames’ for any sign of mockery.

Eames could see now what Arthur must have looked like as a child, desperate for real affection but always on guard, ready for someone bigger and older to laugh at him again.

“I’m not, darling. I’m sorry.” He struggled again. “Arthur, stop. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I want to! I want…” He clutched Eames’ shirt, crying into his neck. “I want her to die, Eames.” He tried to curl into himself, unable to with Eames' bulk pressed so close. He seemed unable to decide whether to fight or welcome Eames’ comfort. “I’ll kill her.”

“You can’t, Arthur. I know it hurts, but you must remember that we can bring her to justice, just like Dom Cobb.”

Arthur grimaced, his anger taking over his pain for a heartbeat. He rubbed his face and hair, looking confused before he hiccupped, missing the tear that slipped past his hands.

Eames put space between them to hold Arthur’s arms. “We can make it right, Arthur. We can stop her from poisoning one more person. Yusuf’s already got all the information he needs to charge her with giving her patients that drug, and we can hold Dom Cobb for helping her cover it up. That’s good enough until I can connect them both to your father—”

“He is _not_ my father,” Arthur gritted out, unleashing more tears he angrily wiped away.

“Okay. Okay, I hear you. If you know how to find Mallorie, I can send for police. Okay?”

It took Arthur a small eternity to finally nod. He rubbed his nose. “Could I… talk to her first? I want to know why she did it.”

“You know I can’t let you do that.”

“Please? I just need to hear it from her. I need to know why.”

“If you can swear to me that you won’t hurt her?” Arthur nearly growled in his frustration, unable to control his outpouring. He rubbed his face as more sobs pushed their way out of him.

At last, at Arthur’s reluctant nod, Eames sighed, his chest heavy. “We should leave as soon as Yusuf calls back, then.”

Eames turned, but was stopped by Arthur’s cracked voice.

“Wait.”

“Hm?”

Arthur sniffled, his cheeks and ears red. He toyed with his sleeve cuff. “Could you,” he cleared his throat, his shoulders hunched. “I need…”

Eames hurried back to him, wrapping him in arms again. At once Arthur relaxed into his hug, tangling his hands in the back of Eames’ shirt.

Arthur sobbed, quiet but unrestrained. He simply didn’t have it in him to fight it now. “Why does everyone who’s supposed to care for me… hurt me? I have no one anymore.”

“No, no, no, don’t say that,” Eames muttered, squeezing and rocking him, his hand cradling Arthur’s head. “You’ve got me. Always.”

“You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”

Eames couldn’t push down his guilt. “Never again.”

“You love me?”

“You know I do. You’ve been failed so many times, Arthur. I’m not going to do that. You’ll always have me, always…”

Eames wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion or off lighting in the sunlit kitchen, but when he looked up and saw Arthur’s expression reflected in the glass cabinets, Arthur’s eyes looks dazed, far away but filled to the brim with rage. Even his lips were pressed into an angry frown until he buried his face in Eames’ shoulder again.

His eyes were soft, tearful and red when Eames stepped back to look at him.

Arthur closed his eyes and sighed. “I feel a knot in my throat and just want to go to bed forever,” he muttered, voice hoarse, broken.

Eames rubbed his shoulders, giving him a little sad smile. “I know that feeling well.”

Arthur walked away, rubbing his hair into his face before he brushed it back. He dragged his feet to the living room and lied down on the couch like a dumped body.

Eames sat on the chair’s arm, softly scratching the back of Arthur’s hair. “You don’t look too good. I don’t blame you.”

“I’m fine.”

Eames snorted sadly. “Oh boy. You worse at lying than I am.” He turned Arthur onto his back, brushing his hair away to kiss his forehead. He stayed close, his fingertips circling and massaging Arthur’s temples. “Tell me what you need.”

Arthur moaned, holding his stomach. “I want you take away my head and heart and everything and burn it.”

Eames sighed, pressing his lips to Arthur’s brow again. “What do you _need_?”

“To go back before everything was so… upside down.”

Eames sat up, petting his head. “I think I might have an idea.”

 

Arthur sat beside him, his legs folded under him. He leaned on Eames. “That one. It’s pretty good.”

Eames kept the channel on the cartoon, Daria, frowning. He could feel Arthur smile against his shoulder as the protagonist and her friend made deadpan quips to each other. He sighed and ate another spoonful of the sugary cereal.

Eames glanced down at him, his heart still breaking for Arthur, but with their bowls of cereal and the tv turned down low, Arthur wasn’t crumbling anymore. He was stabilizing. All the fragmented, jagged edges softening into the something he could hopefully, eventually, someday learn to live with, as Eames had.

+

 


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! I'm trying to end 2015 with a bang! *fingers fly off*
> 
> I CAN'T BELIEVE THIS FIC IS ALMOST OVER! IT HAS M A Y B E TWO MORE CHAPTERS LEFT????? D: 
> 
> I SCARED! 3: I haven't gotten this far on a mega project since... ever. T_T
> 
> HAPPY NEW YEAR! <3 And thanks as always for being the best readers I could ask for!

+

 

**Alaska, 40 miles south of Denali State Park  — _Sixteen years ago_**

 

If anyone was more out of place in Alaska, it was Margret. Beautiful, movie star Margret with her curled hair and her French poetry books and art and old music Arthur wasn't embarrassed to dance to.

Especially when she’d look up at him from her chair and see him dancing in her long cardigan that fit him like a big robe, and take off her glasses, set aside her pen and psychology books and dance with him.

They had been living here for only a month and already the neighbors’ invitations to church events and potlucks had ended. No more moms stopping by with homemade sweets and no more pausing in the grocery store to chat and introduce more cousins and uncles to the new Alaskans. No, Arthur wasn't dumb and neither were his real friends, Code magpie and Nightmare Seven, no, the people here didn't like Arthur and his weirdness, and they didn't like Margret with her accent and big books either.

And they were both perfectly fine with that. If Arthur was suspended for a day for yelling at the walls or having seizures that scared the other kids, it was okay. Margret always made it okay, with Etta James and Sam Cooke, or Edith Piaf and Nina Simone on the record player she coveted, on the days when she had no patients and no long and far away trips to go to.

He held her hands. “I want to paint my nails like you, mommy.”

Her laugh was like Jane Russell's in the movie Margret made Martin watch every time it came on TV. “Why don’t we wait and ask your father first.”

Arthur stopped dancing. He balled his fists, glaring at the wood floor. Martin never let him do any of the things Margret did to look pretty. “I hate him.”

“Arthur,” she sighed, kneeling in front of him, unafraid, unlike his teachers. She rubbed his red ears, trying to calm him. “He just doesn't want you to be bullied. That’s all.”

“I'm already bullied,” he muttered, ashamed by his tears.

She frowned, sighing in pity for him. “I hate this place. There aren't enough sweet boys in this world, and the awful children only try to make sure that there are even less of them.” She swept her hand over her short ponytail, fretting as Arthur held his breath. “Baby… please don't… You will hurt yourself. “

“Good! Then Martin won't be angry anymore and you won't have to live here!”

“Arthur, no.” She tried to reach for him but he raised his fists and held his breath again. “Arthur?” She hung her head, her own fists balled angrily on the carpet. “Damn it,” she muttered, fighting back tears as she rose to her feet and dug through her satchel.

“No!” Arthur struggled to run, but she held his hand. He sobbed. “I don't want any medicine! You promised!”

“I know, I'm sorry, but I don't know what else to do to help you. Please, Arthur, be still.”

“I don't want my friends to go away again.” He fell to the floor in a fit of tears.

She hugged him in her lap, rocking him. “I know, you… you love… your friends, but you love mommy too, don't you?” She wiped her eyes as he nodded against her chest. “Well, baby, I don't want you to hurt yourself, _or_ me. Okay? Just one to make you feel better.”

He listened, crying as he drank the pill down with his apple juice.

Margret rubbed his shoulders and held him as his world slowed and took on a permanent tilt, gravity weighing him down so heavy. “Feel better, baby?”

He nodded, letting her wipe away his tears. He hiccuped, feeling the edges of his mind go fuzzy and dimmed. The spotted bird and rain cloud would fade soon and he’d be left with nothing but the bad ones, but he could breathe now and his world wasn't falling apart so fast anymore. He sobbed and covered his face but she still rubbed his ears and kissed his cheeks. He tried to mirror her smile as she rubbed his ears again. He blushed. “I love you, mommy.”

She hugged him close, breathing deeply, her arms reaching through the noise and fog surrounding him and held him close, as if she were a shield, covering him until she sat back, her eyes wet. “I love you too, baby.”

“I feel better.”

She pressed their foreheads together, she grin one of mischief. “Good, because we love this song, don't we?”

He nodded quickly, taking her hands when she held them out for him. He stood on her socked feet, giggling as she moved, her black blouse and high waist pants made her look like a model from another time.

“Martin doesn't know good music,” she teased. “He's only ever had good taste once in all of his life.” She pointed at her own nose, making Arthur laugh.

+

 

He lay awake that night, watching Nightmare Seven blow away spiders from the ceiling as Code magpie built a nest of pencils near his pillow to keep his safe. He sat up to help, emptying his crayons on the bed to make the nest bigger.

His parents were arguing. They’d been arguing since Martin got home. Arthur wasn't in trouble for being suspended, but Margret was.

“What were you thinking,” he could hear Martin saying. “How long has it been?”

“I know, I know, but he’s too young. You don't know what—”

“It doesn't matter! You're going to blow this for us! You know what he said. It's not in our hands, okay? We just have to do what he tells us.”

“How can you be so heartless? You’re becoming just like that man.”

“Oh, come on, hon. You know if I could, I’d… I'd pack us up tonight and run as far away from him as we could. I love my son, and I can't stand what he's going through, but it's not in our hands. He’ll take Arthur and we'll all be… Well, worse than we are already. We're in too deep. Look, if it's easier on him to stay on medication, we can't fight it. No more suspensions and no more pissing off the wrong people.”

“Speak for yourself,” she hissed. Arthur hurried from the bed to hear her. “I'm not the only resistant one.”

Martin was shaking his head when Arthur peered at him. “No, what you're doing is stopping him from spinning off the rails into God knows where. What _I’m_ supposed to do? You have no idea, babe. I _have_ to draw the line there. It's too early. He’s—” Martin glanced at him, his face falling before he smiled. “Hey buddy,” only to frown again, deeper. “What is that on your jammies?”

“Oh good heavens,” Margret sighed, following him to Arthur. She scowled at the multicolored streaks covering his pajamas. “Arthur what on earth…”

“I… There were spiders, all over my room, and… and Seven said I had to build a nest with Code…” He looked to Martin’s frown as Margret hurried past him. “I had to make sure they didn't get me.”

Martin took his hand and followed Margret. There was crayon all over the wall and sheets and pencils scattered the floor.

They stared at it, angrily. Margret walked to Martin and buried her face to his neck.

Arthur fretted. “There were… spiders.” He wasn't the only one who knew now at least that there never were any.

Margret and Martin hugged. She hummed, smiling when Martin ruffled Arthur's hair instead of yelling.

“I’ll make sure they’re all gone,” he told him, moving past her to strip the bed.

Margret leaned down and rubbed Arthur's ears, kissing his forehead. “Our little boy is an artist.” She picked him up, smiling still. “Come and sleep with us tonight.” She kissed his cheek. “We’ll fight those spiders together.”

++

+

+

 

Arthur’s voices were creeping back in, like a rising tide, only for the first time in his life, it didn’t overwhelm him. Not foggy, not heavy, not tense, just… himself beyond sommacin. Free at last.

He flexed his hands on the couch cushions, able to feel the stretch of his skin and the warmth in his fingers, the couch’s wool rough and worn under his nails.

Eames was sleeping. Arthur took his first tour of the cabin, touching the surfaces, the rugs, the doorframes, mapping every room before his mind could do it for him. Things were out of place, but they weren’t solid and tangible presences, the voices like overheard whispers here and there. He could live with that. He had more pressing issues keeping him on edge now.

It was funny. All his life, people had been predictable and his mind had not been. Now everything was backwards. If he’d have known a year ago that feeling around at the soft and unstable corners of his own life would reveal the whole house to be made of straw, maybe… he would have never done it. Hell, he would still be out roaming free with Martin _or_ he’d be in prison right now or dead, and maybe the Cobbs would be clinking champagne glasses off somewhere in Mexico, but… he’d have something then that he could have remained content with, even if it wasn’t real.

He raked his hands through Eames’ hair, easing him down further onto the couch and searched his pocket for his car keys. By now the ground was all mush from the melted snow he’d missed while under. He hugged himself in Eames’ great big coat, scenting it, as if he could still feel Eames’ body heat trapped within its sleeves and under the zipper. The hood swallowed his head. He felt out the path for ice but it too had melted, his feet slipping in Eames’ old slippers he’d found, but his own shoes were lost to Maryland and the house he longed for.

He drove slowly, easing down the roads, the twists and turns and bridges all giving him something tangible to focus on in lieu of medications or having to dwell on his anger. He had never been this side of the Appalachian before, but he was a man so at ease with back roads and mountain paths he soon found the main road with hardly a glance at the GPS.

He had to give it Eames. The man knew how to pick the most scenic places to call home. Arthur could sink himself into a town like this and truly relax. A part of him even considered it. Eames’ cabin was tucked far enough away into the mountain, they could hide away there forever. Forget everything else in the world, save for Eames’ mother, and together they could live in peace and hunt and fish until they were old and grey.

He frowned as the road took him past vineyards and farms, coming up on a pasture filled with sand colored oxen grazing.

He parked on the side of the road and got out the camera he’d found while snooping in the cabin. The oxen looked like mythical creatures, big and beautiful with their horns and long, pretty lashes. He could hear a car driving up the road behind him as he raised the camera, ready to take the picture.

They honked their horn as they began to drive around Eames’ car, startling the oxen away from the fence, ruining the shot.

Arthur grabbed a heavy rock from near his feet and chucked it at the car’s rear window. The glass shattered, the car speeding up in the driver’s surprise and swerved across the road before they lost control and crashed into the irrigation ditch. He glared as steam filled the crushed hood, the driver’s face swallowed by the airbag as they groaned in pain.

It was a lovely thought. He could almost smell the leaking fuel in his mind as his imagination simmered down, but he watched the car drive on up the road. He dropped the rock back at his feet, surprised by his own restraint.

“Asshole.” Arthur shook his head and turned back to Eames’ car. He slammed the door and drove back to the cabin, feeling even more off balance now.

+

 

Eames was admittedly panicked when he woke up on the couch to find the house empty.

The back door was cracked open. When he peeked out at the yard, all was blanketed in a thick midday fog. It wetted his skin immediately, clinging to his beard and clothes.

“Did I worry you?”

If not for the sound of Arthur’s voice, Eames would have never known where to look for him in these woods. “Strange, sunbathing fully clothed under a canopy of trees and when you can’t see your hand in front of your face.”

Arthur huffed, quiet and tired, his eyes still closed as he lay on the sloping edge of the river that widened a sizeable stretch just down the bend. “Life’s too short to be so conventional, Mr. Eames.”

Eames slipped a little, navigating through the wet grass and smooth rocks. His bare feet sank under the soft dirt and leaves, the small icy waves rippling over his toes before he quickly stepped back, shivering.

Arthur was soaked, lying in the leaves and stones. He pushed his hair back, smiling sadly. “It’s so quiet. I can see why you like hiding out here.”

“Except for the summer months. Tourist season,” Eames muttered, glancing at Arthur as he sat down. He reached across the short distance and tucked a lock of curling hair behind Arthur’s ear.

Arthur shivered at the touch, tilting his face into it. He nipped at Eames’ thumb.

“Most of the cabins here are empty until then. It’s nice… The fishing’s the best. Not much of a hunter…and by that I mean I don’t hunt at all... Arthur,” he rumbled, “you’re not doing that out here.”

Arthur pulled Eames’ cock from his trousers. “Even if those cabins are full of people, they can’t see us across the river, not is this fog.”

Eames took a deep breath. “Are you sure you're…”

Arthur's face said it all, even before he whispered, “I need this.”

Eames’ eyes fluttered close. He leaned back, feeling Arthur mouth his cock to hardness. “Naughty boy.” He moaned when Arthur hummed. “We’re going back inside. It's bloody freezing.”

“No.” Arthur grinned, jerking Eames’ length quickly. “Be naughty with me.” He nibbled Eames’ neck, slow and deliberate, in warning before he bit Eames’ collarbone.

Eames cursed under his breath, startling away at the pain. He touched his skin, surprised by the blood.

Arthur quickly caught Eames’ fingers, sucking away the red before he licked Eames’ collarbone. He pushed him down on the grass and kissed him deeply, pulling at Eames’ shirt.

It felt like a dream, surrounded by the fog and ageless trees and overwhelmed by Arthur’s rough handling. Eames hissed when Arthur bit his shoulder even harder, but Eames made no move to free himself, reminded in a flash of the first dream he’d had of the man, of being bitten.

Arthur teased Eames’ nipples through his wet shirt, staining it with faint, reddish pink spots. He gazed down at Eames through his soaked hair, grinding in his lap, a smirk playing at his lips.

A challenge. He tore open Eames’ shirt viciously, popping buttons and seams. Still, his lips returning to Eames’ nipples were soft, teasing a groan from Eames as he worked his way back to his cock.

Arthur laughed, tickled by Eames’ lost control when Eames grabbed him by the hair and turned them. His wrists were held over his head, bruised under Eames’ tight grip. “See? It’s fun, isn’t it? Escaping. Run away with me for a while.” He gasped and keened low in his throat when Eames ducked down and bit his ribs. “It feels good. Do it again!”

He obeyed, pushing Arthur’s sweatshirt high up on his chest. He bit and sucked on bruises along his ribs, passing over his bandage with care. He held Arthur flat on the grass when he tried to sit up and bit Eames again. He turned Arthur’s face away, roughly, kissing his throat.

Arthur snapped with his teeth and laughed, egging Eames on, to hold him tighter, to put more bruises on his skin.

Eames panted, yanking off Arthur’s sweatpants. He tossed them near enough to the water that the waves almost caught them.

Arthur giggled and yelped when Eames bit his sensitive inner thigh. “Oh, I see Mr. Eames can play dirty. I like this.” He gasped and pulled up the dead leaves when Eames bit closer and closer to his groin. “But you’re not making me bleed like you could, Eames. Big, tough man, and your gentle, gentle touches.” He cursed, his legs trying to close reflexively at the pain Eames inflicted. “I like when I’m wrong about you,” he chuckled, running his fingers through Eames hair. “Again. Do it again. God!”

He was quick, catching Eames’ shoulder again.

Eames startled when he was slapped, his cheek stinging as he pushed Arthur back down reflexively, the force nearly knocking the wind out of him. Arthur laughed, pinned with Eames’ arm over his chest like an iron bar, his fingers digging into Arthur’s arm. He keened like a wounded animal, the sound invading Eames’ bloodstream and taking over his brain… like venom.

Arthur was turned onto his stomach, his hard cock trapped under him in the wet ground.

Eames straddled his back, his hands large and heavy on Arthur’s shoulder blades, his weight pushing him against the dirt. He held him there, letting the mist swirl and circle around them. His heart pounded in his chest. He could feel Arthur’s lungs expanding, inhaling, exhaling with increasing difficulty under his bulk.

He liked it. Arthur couldn’t move if he tried, and he wasn’t. He simply smirked devilishly in the leaves, waiting for Eames to do something.

Eames’ hand covered the back of his neck, the other running down Arthur’s wet spine, past his black orchid, over little bits of broken roots and crumpled leaves and specks of dirt. Arthur tried to lift his hips, silently encouraging Eames’ fingertips to trail lower, between his round cheeks under Eames’ thighs.

Arthur made another soft sound and sucked his bottom lip between his teeth as Eames splayed his hand, rubbing his back. Eames moved to sit over his legs. He dipped down and bit the faint curve of Arthur’s waist and again further down over his coiling mamba, as hard as Arthur had bit him. The wounded sound was more genuine this time. It traveled through his ears, anchoring itself in his stomach. He bit him again, but moved away once blood welled up at the wounds.

“Why won’t you get out of your head, Eames?” Arthur struggled under him, grabbing at the hand still at his throat. “I want your control. I want you to shake me down until my brain rattles and quiets. Give me that. You don’t want me to get up from here and push you. Trust me, you don’t.”

Eames brought his hand down hard over Arthur’s bruising hip in a smack. Arthur’s breath caught, his struggle fading. His pale skin reddened with Eames’ handprint. He covered Arthur’s ass with his stinging smacks, his cock straining and leaking against Arthur’s thigh as he watched Arthur’s cheeks bounce with the force and redden. His ears rang with the sharp sound of Arthur’s gasps cutting through the thick air.

“Fuck, Eames, you are…beautifully…unforgiving.” He laughed again, breathless when his neck was finally freed.

“You’re hurt?”

His laugh took on a tinge of wildness. “Not enough.”

Eames covered him, lying over his back. Hungry, he turned Arthur’s head to devour his mouth.

He was surprised by the bite. _His_ bite. Arthur groaned, pulling away from Eames’ teeth as far as he could at first, but he recovered fast and attacked Eames’ mouth in return, his lips begging for Eames’ teeth again.

Eames pulled back. He needed to stop. He needed to lead them. He felt dizzy. He pressed his face to Arthur’s back and breathed deeply.

It wasn’t until he sat up again that he realized he’d been gripping the back of Arthur’s arms too hard. More bruises. Even close to his bandage. Arthur was covered in them.

Covered in Eames’ mark.

Arthur’s knees were red from the smooth rocks near the lapping water. He moved further up the grass and tucked his legs up under him, reaching a hand between his legs to jerk himself, his breath still panting into the leaves. “Eames…”

Eames closed his eyes, his name called in the voice of a siren. He lifted Arthur’s hips up high and parted his cheeks, kissing his hole.

Arthur cried out, ripping more grass when Eames smacked his hole and rubbed it in circles. He could feel Eames’ beard scratching his skin. He nearly screamed when Eames sank his teeth into the delicate flesh where his inner thigh met his perineum.

Eames’ blood boiled at the pained sound. He pushed his tongue and twirled it, breaching Arthur’s body just enough to tease more frustrated sounds from his lips.

“More!”

Slender fingers touched his mouth, getting licked before Arthur pressed them to his rim, slick as they pushed past Eames’ tongue. Eames moaned, sitting back to watch Arthur finger himself. His tongue kept Arthur’s fingers wet, before his lips drifted up his back, higher and higher until he nipped at the bruises on Arthur’s neck.

Eames shoved fingers in Arthur’s mouth, gagging him. His hand dipped between then, fingering Arthur open even as his own fingers still pumped as deep as they could reach.

Arthur’s moans tumbled into Eames’ mouth, his breath ragged as Eames’ cock rubbed precome on his skin whenever Eames thrust his hips against him.

Eames sat up, watching Arthur add a fourth finger to keep himself stretched once Eames withdrew.

Arthur could sense Eames holding back in his head again when Eames’ hips stilled, his cock throbbing between Arthur’s cheeks. He licked his palm and stroked Eames, spreading the precome over his shaft. He guided him, pushing back and forcing his body to take Eames in slowly.

“Spit,” he panted. “Spit more… A lot… Keep me wet.” He cursed, the added slick making the glide easier and easier. “It’s okay to… fucking hurt me, Eames… I won’t break.” He squeezed tears from his eyes, moaning loudly, clutching the grass as he pushed back. “But you should at least… try to.” He huffed out a breathless laugh, knowing his words struck a cord.

Eames grabbed a handful of Arthur’s hair, his other hand holding Arthur’s jaw, his fingers digging into his mouth, as he thrust slowly, deeply, pulling out until only the head remained in Arthur’s too-tight body. He spit on his cock and stroked back in before repeating the motion, keeping them as slick as he could.

Arthur freed his jaw enough for Eames’ hand to grip his neck. He pushed back, his body hungry for a faster, harder pace. He braced his hands in the dirt, his eyes closed, his voice rising over the faint smack of Eames’ hips against his ass.

Eames didn’t care about the dirt he got in his hair when he raked it back from his face. It was in Arthur’s hair, on his neck, even his nipples when Eames’ greedy, rough hand sought them out to tease them harshly.

Arthur smiled even as Eames’ thrust pushed another wounded sound past his lips. It was clear in the way he arched his back for Eames that he loved bringing out this inner part of him. Even as Eames crushed him, ground him up into a moaning, desperate heap, Arthur had been chipping away at Eames, shattering his composure and revealing the animal that lived tucked down so deep inside for a long time now, and here it was.

His grip on Arthur’s hips made the deepest bruises. Little ovals that would hurt Arthur, keep him sore and aching for days. Eames couldn’t help it. Even here, now, in such an ethereal place, in the cold fog and the icy air and their streaming breaths, that inner animal salivated at Arthur’s tight, compact frame.

Such a little… _deadly_ body, and yet when Eames lay on top of him, his arms circling his waist, squeezing and holding him down as he fucked him harder, this boy let himself be devoured. His trust, his love, it was so painfully clear and so painfully a mirror of his own heart and mind.

His eyes blurring, chest tight, Eames reached under him and grabbed his length, stroking hard and quick as Arthur bucked back.He caught an earlobe between his teeth and at once Arthur yelled and came, his hole contracting in spasms that never failed to make Eames’ breath catch, his brain short-circuiting.

He grunted into Arthur’s hair, thrusting his release as deep as he could. He ground his hips, his come wetting his cock and down Arthur’s perineum when Arthur reached his hand under him, past his cock to touch where he and Eames were joined. Arthur pushed back, squeezing him still.

They lay shivering from their sweat in the leaves, the water’s rush the only sound.

He moaned feeling Arthur’s fingers push his soft cock back into his spent body.

Arthur folded his arms under his head. He sighed, a little smile playing at his lips again. “Thank you for keeping me company, Eames. I feel… a little like myself again.”

“Can we go back inside _now_?”

Arthur snorted, laughing breathlessly. “Yeah, yeah. Get off and help me up.”

Eames winced, standing, but he grimaced at the mess he’d made of Arthur. “You look battered, my boy.”

Arthur snickered, eyeing him as he stretched like a sleepy cat. His smile was brighter than the sun setting behind the heavy clouds. “Speak for yourself.”

+

 

Eames’ burner phone was buzzing when he and Arthur left the shower. He left him naked and toweling his hair as he hurried to pick it up.

“Yusuf? Is everyone safe?”

“No idea. Shit’s kind of hit the fans here.”

“What's happened?”

“Ariadne just called. Adeyemi hasn't been seen since you left and now Robert's missing. Do you think Adeyemi might be… using him for protection? The department has Ariadne in closed door meetings all day. It wouldn't be a stretch to think Adeyemi might have panicked?”

Eames rubbed his face hard in frustration. “Well, if that's the case then, Robert will safe for now, God willing. And Ariadne's a brilliant agent. Good head on her shoulders. Are they focused on finding Robert, or us?” He paused. “They think Arthur's got him, don't they?”

“It was the first thought, but Ariadne took pictures? Of Arthur's condition?”

“Yes,” he sighed, relieved that she had proof to clear Arthur of at least one crime. “Good.”

“She also told me Forensics found a note in Arthur’s clothes from when he’d been taken from your house. There was a note in the pocket she wanted to ask you about. Sending you a text with the script.”

“Arthur,” Eames called to him and showed him the phone. “What's this?”

Arthur's eyes went wide. “That’s Martin's handwriting. It's…” He narrowed his eyes. “It's code, _our_ … code. This note looks old. How…” He frowned, shaking his head. “It can’t be from when we fought. I would have felt him in my pocket when I was punching him in the face.”

Eames frowned deeper, eyeing him before he looked at the message again. “Maybe his note, but not his hand that gave it to you?”

Arthur worried his ear, his brow furrowing.  “Your boss?”

“As much as it turns my to stomach to think about, you did say he’d been in the house before? In my room?” He nodded slowing, mirroring Arthur. “That could be when, then. What’s it say?”

“An address.”

Eames watched him walk away slowly, still musing his hair with the towel, bare to the world as he paced. “To where? You think it’ll match what Yusuf finds?”

He shook his head, thinking. “Well… it might not be… _so_ shocking if they do match, considering…”

“Considering what? Talk to me.”

Arthur stared at the phone again before he huffed. “It’s his signal for surrender. He’s… giving up, according to this. It’s a mashup of two quotes from Funny Face,” he explained at the sight of Eames’ surprise. He muttered, “Audrey Hepburn. We…” He sighed, rubbing his ear. “Me and… Mallorie Cobb used to spend every Sunday watching those classics.” His jaw clenched. “We’d recite lines for fun just to piss off Martin because he hated old movies, but… Well, they served a purpose, later. He sends me notes, texts, emails, whatever he knows will find me, with a coded message that’s always from a movie specific to a location. It’s for me to know where to find them, but… I don’t understand. He didn’t give this to me.”

“Think it’s a trap?”

“Only one way to find out.”

“Where to, then?”

“New York.”

“Specifically?”

“Amityville,” Arthur said with a straight face before he forced a sad smirk.

Eames rumbled, scowling, but he was itching to hit the road again and settle this once and for all. “Well, look who’s being funny.”

A small smile appeared before Arthur could stop it. He rubbed it off. “Staten Island.”

Eames nodded. “Alright. Here we go, then.”

+

 


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO AND HOLY MOLEY DONUT SHOP, IT HAS BEEN A VERY HOT MINUTE SINCE THIS WAS UPDATED, AND IT'S SO CLOSE TO THE END, I CAN'T BELIEVE I DROPPED THE BALL ON YALL! D:"" 
> 
> Anyways, with thst being said, thank you all so much for the support and for sticking around as always with these fics. My life has been out of control like I can't believe, but I AM here, whenever I can be. @_@ 
> 
> Enjoy! Hopefully....please? 3:"

+

 

**Oregon, 2 miles south of Portland — _Six years ago_**

 

Martin's truck was an old brick on wheels. Rusting, loud, a solid vehicle that had seen better days on a ranch in Washington.

Arthur wasn't allowed to handle guns in Margret’s car or even Martin’s jeep. And with good reason, he was loathed to admit.

“So this is it,” his ‘chaperone’ stated, a Piegan Blackfoot man by the name of Dan Owl Child Rising, echoing the words Martin had said when he and Owl Child had first brought the old truck rattling up the street to the house a month earlier, with plates from only God knew who they stole them from. Just for Arthur. In case he fucked up again.

The native man, handsome and older like Martin, and big like Cutter had been, turned the truck off on the roadside parking lot across the street from the hotel. He at back and zipped up his heavy coat, getting comfortable. “Now we wait.”

Arthur let Martin’s shotgun rest in his lap, its weight grounding him in the present even as his mind wandered. He watched his breath fog the dark window as he pulled off his headphones. Martin wasn't coming. Arthur was alone. He'd fail, and he'd end up right back in a holding cell, and—

“ _Get that under control, son_ ,” Martin muttered to him in his head, his voice carrying enough authority to get those other whispers to quiet themselves for now. “ _Remember what your mom says_.”

“Hey. You in there or do I need to call Martin and cancel the whole thing?”

He shook his head, still embarrassed to be that obviously out control in his own head, even as old as he was. He still took his deep breaths and oriented himself in the moment with that heavy gun in his lap and the fog rolling in.

Owl Child wasn't convinced. He eyed him, his frown carrying more judgment than Arthur could handle from anyone else, let alone someone this important to Martin and his mission. “You got yourself one hell of an old man, you know that?”

Arthur glanced over, his eyes lingering on Owl Child’s long braid where it roped down his shoulder to the seat.

“I got sons," the man was saying.  "I keep their asses in school so they can't embarrass me as much as you do with Martin and his impossible tasks.” He laughed softly, cuffing Arthur's arm. “I gotta give it to you, though. You sure are either one _lucky_ motherfucker, or Martin is.” He narrowed his eyes at him. “How _did_ you bust out?”

“Does it matter? I'm here.” He returned Owl Child’s stare. “I can do this.” Arthur sank lower in the seat, wanting to disappear, but what kind of a fuck up would he be then? He'd gotten busted holding Martin’s guns, he had a record now, a mugshot, and he was a fugitive. He had no choice but to make this work for Martin.

Owl Child rolled down the window before he lit his cigarette. He studied it. “Why?”

“Hm?”

“Why don’t you wanna be… you know? A kid. Go to school, get a girl… Not that you can show your face most places with your mug up in the sheriff's station _now_ , but...” He shrugged.

“Did you stay in school, Dan?”

He glared, but snorted. “My school was bulldozed for a pipeline,” he laughed. Harder when Arthur reached over and took his cigarette to smoke for himself, coughing when he realized that it wasn’t tobacco at all. Owl Child shook his head, teasing as Arthur stubbornly smoked more. “All you little white boys want to be John Wayne or something, out in the wild, wild west. Well,” he sighed, “hope this doesn’t bite you in the ass one more good time.”

Arthur crushed the cigarette, barely feeling the ashes burn his fingers. “I know better now.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Next time, I’m not letting the cops take me in. Not if I can help it.”

Owl Child whistled, grinned, his cheeks dimpling. “Good boy. Someday, you’ll be a smart kid.”

“Fuck off,” he blushed, seeing the senator’s staffer the same time Owl Child did. “What know?”

“What do you mean? You track and shoot. And then come back and we go get fries and tell Martin what a great job his boy did.”

Arthur’s stomach tightened, pained with his nerves. The smoke had dulled the murmurs in his head, but Martin was still there, somewhere, down in his stomach barking orders and threats of what would happen if he screwed up again. “Okay… Yeah.” He shouldered open the truck’s door and stepped out, his hands shaking as if his life depended on this, and hell, maybe it did.

+

 

Arthur sat on the railing of the river’s overlook, dropping the bloody bullets over into the night’s black water. He kept the shell casings, just in cast. “Why did he die?”

Owl Child didn’t hear him, on the phone with Martin off to the side near the truck, discussing Arthur’s fate. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t ever a smart thing to ask him or Martin why they killed people who never even knew they existed.

“He’s an oddball, that one,” he heard Owl Child say, the words nearly taken away by the wind, “but I think… Yeah, he’ll do just fine with more practice. Man in charge'll be happy enough, that's for sure.”

Arthur closed his eyes. He climbed off of the railing and back onto solid ground. “What now? Should I go home?”

Owl Child smiled, his pride unlocking some door for Arthur leave boyhood for good, and be a man now, like him, like Martin. “We celebrate. Come on, I’ll let you drive this time.”

++

+

+

 

Eames found himself no longer enjoying the open road as he once had. Every mile seemed to wear on them both now, driving closer and closer towards some unknowable end.

Arthur drifted in and out of restless sleep, startling awake more than once before some nightmare drug him back down.

It ate at Eames. The same nagging wonder he had always been left carrying after seeing Arthur so far from his normal control.

He reached over and tucked a wild curl behind Arthur’s ear. He watched him rouse himself forcefully, moaning as he stretched before slumping, having weathered some storm in sleep again.

In the new light of day, reemerging in the real world, in the cold, crisp morning with its heavy snow clouds, he still had questions that needed answers. “What do you dream about that leaves you so rough handled, boy?”

Arthur’s ears reddened with embarrassment as he sat up and scowled at himself. He huffed and combed back his hair. “Scariest creatures on earth lurk at the bottom of the deep, blue sea,” he teased, his voice deep and rough, warming Eames’ cheeks even as he eyed Arthur with concern.

“Past demons, then?” Eames carefully edged, glancing over. He had, it seemed, once been right with Arthur in that dark sea. The memory of that night made his heart ache and his throat dry. “That… Cutter fellow, or… Michael?”

Arthur only sat quietly for a while as he watched them flow with the light traffic.

So Eames stopped searching him. He was surprised, then, when Arthur spoke in the silence of a missing radio ad.

“Cutter’s just one big grizzly. Or _was_. Michael was a wolf with a pack. If you find yourself wounded in a winter forest and stranded, hope a bear finds you first. It's quicker. Easier.”

Eames glanced at him again. He swallowed. “Quicker to… kill you?”

Arthur smiled a little then, distracted by something within even as he at last met one of Eames’ quick glances. He continued his study of the trees alongside the highway. “Quicker for _you_ to kill.” He rummaged his bag, yawning as he brought his water bottle to his lips. He tossed back into the bag, more awake now.

“I’m a bit of a rarity, when it comes to how my brain works,” he said after a while, leaning forward like a child to see the first of the snow fall from the sky. "Most people don’t start to lose control of their minds until they’re adults, but I’ve always seen and heard things that weren’t real. I was six when I started taking my medication. It’s the first year that I can really recall with some semblance of clarity. Martin… _Dominic_ , and Mallorie Cobb, made a home in a little Alaskan town of maybe a hundred people in total? About sixty, seventy miles north of Denali. Far, far off the one main road there.”

“Sounds like a perfect place to live for two people on the run.”

“Yeah,” Arthur said slowly, grimacing, “but… I screwed it up for them. Little towns don’t allow for much anonymity if you stick out too much.”

Eames nodded slowly. “You were a target.”

“Oh yeah. I confused everybody. First, they said that I didn’t look like my parents, so there were rumors that I’d been kidnapped for a while. When you’re a little kid stuff like that’s scary enough, but mom kept me convinced that everyone else was wrong, so I trusted her and Dominic. But then, everyone thought I was weird because my mental condition had made it impossible for me to keep up with kids my age. I didn’t really speak much outside of the house, I couldn’t read, or even write my name most days. Most days, I just screamed and had serious tantrums.”

“You were bullied, then.”

“Dominic hated that. In the beginning, he’d yell at me all the time for it. I was weak to him, but over the next three years I improved a lot, thanks to her.”

“Mrs. Cobb?”

Arthur nodded. “It didn’t change much outside of the house, though. It got only worse when Dominic decided to start intervening. You know all that crap about sociopaths killing neighborhood pets when they’re kids? I never did that. Dominic did, though. He’d see me get pushed into the snow and the next day, I’d go with Mallorie into town and find out that that kid’s pet went missing, or either they’d find a dead bird on their porch. Everyone figured it was me.”

He sank lower in his seat. “I think I was maybe twelve when Michael and his friends were… sixteen or so? The animal killings had escalated and Dominic kept forcing me to watch him kill them. I was… being a ‘big boy’ and walking to town by myself one morning in October when Michael ran over me with his dad’s car.”

Eames stammered. “What?”

Again Arthur smiles softly, as if opening up were exhausting him, but still he shared his past with Eames in the same deep, rough voice but his tone was so quiet Eames turned the radio down.

“It was only autumn, but we had snow there… Lucky for me, I didn’t freeze. It’s amazing how high the temperature under a running car feels when it drags you over frozen pavement. Like you’re on fire.” Arthur huffed, laughing humorlessly. “Broke my arms, my legs, couple ribs… I hit my head. _That_ was one of the scariest parts, because it was one of the first times I couldn’t hear any voices. I was completely alone out there. I was so terrified that a pack of wolves was going to find me and eat me that I pissed myself. Imagine my fear when it started to snow on me too, but… eventually somebody found me. I had to be airlifted over a hundred miles to a hospital in Anchorage. I was there for nearly a year.”

“And…” Eames shook his head at a loss. He gripped the wheel harder. “And in all that time, the Cobbs never once thought to get the hell out of that town?”

“Oh no… Dominic had a score he wanted me to settle first. Soon as I healed, he tried to make me steal Michael’s dog as payback, but I hid under my bed, so… he skinned it and hung its hide outside my window with a trail of blood and guts back to Michael’s house. Michael and his friends chased me into the woods with shotguns and hunting knives like I was prey for it. They promised me that they were going to skin me alive and hang me as soon as they caught me. I had to…” He scratched his nose. “I had to kill one of them with the knife I had to pull out of my leg when he, Jake, caught up to me. The rest all fled back into town.”

“But I don't understand. Why were police never called in all that time?”

Arthur smiled again. “No real police out there on the last frontier. Just a few old deputy cars and uniforms out surveying the town while their kids and nephews terrorize the weakest links. They got as much of an air for justice as their sons. And when five sons went into the woods for a ‘hunting trip’ and one son never came home… it was hell.” He rubbed his face. “Dominic’s grand plan for revenge was spiraling out of control so he did, really, the only logical thing,” he teased. “Dominic used me for bait. He sent me back out into the woods with Michael and those other boys hungry for my blood.”

“You killed them?”

“I knew how to set traps then. It was all I could muster the courage for. Even as angry as I was, even as much as I wanted to be fearless, like Dominic, I… I couldn't. I ran and hid until nobody was left to chase me. They kept shooting, though,” he mused, his eyes far away. “It was as if getting caught in those traps was nothing to Michael. Only the cold really seemed to… But there was blood _everywhere_. But I did what I had to in order to survive.”

Eames rubbed his chin, remembering Yusuf’s report. His heart was pounding out of his chest, his palms wet. “And their families?”

Arthur shook his head. “I didn’t know what was happening back in town until after, when I found my way back out of the woods alone. Dominic had killed the boys' families when he thought I wasn't coming home. Back then, I had no idea that Cobb was a killer. He'd always just been... my dad. Even with his insane idea of revenge and animal slaughter. He was hunter, so… I didn't know. It's weird to kill animals, but it's not the same as killing other people.” He took a deep breath and sighed. “I was a mess when I got back home, but... he made it okay. He and I, we were… different, then. Able to communicate in his language, in his world, then, when I had never understood him before. What I’d been made to do? Killing those boys? It made me… it made me become just like him, you know? I had blood on my hands and so did he. One happy little family, huh? But I shouldn't complain. What's happened since, even… Even where we are now, I have trouble remembering that I'm supposed to hate him. Dominic's lessons made me stronger. No more hiding under beds after that. And when I fell in deep with Cutter, it was Dominic who got me out, Eames. He broke me and rebuilt me better. Survivable.”

"I don't know, Arthur. You sound a little too proud for my liking."

"I enjoy surviving,” he said, his eyes sharp and impassioned. He touched Eames’ knee softly. “Those boys hunted me, I ended them."

“And now they haunt you every time your eyes close to sleep.” He glanced over at Arthur's sigh. “He did that to you. Instead of freeing you from them, instead of _saving_ you and taking you out of hell, he left you without a choice. And now you're stuck with them and the blood that's flown after.”

“That's true. You and I… We aren't anything alike, really,” he whispered, wounded. “Your father cared enough to let you be a child and live on, far outside the reach of his shadow.”

Eames sighed, shaking his head as Arthur reached over to pet his cheek and hair. Now he too felt as if searching himself was exhausting. “Not at all...”

“Hm. At least you know how to tell the difference. Nostalgia can't trick you like it tricks me. You've always know what real love feels like.”

+

 

The house was surprisingly everything Eames expected it to be. From the age on the siding, the unkempt, aging shrubs in front of the porch and the leaning mailbox, all the way to the neighborhood itself. The simple two story houses that lined to street, all blanketed in thick snow now, they spoke of generations preserved like antique dollhouses or a movie set for greasers and wise guys. Working class, but comfortable, easy for lying low off the radar. It was perfect.

“I popped six cherries in that upstairs bedroom on the far right,” Arthur teased, his voice carrying a tremble. He coughed, giving Eames a poor attempt at a smile as they parked a few houses down on the road. Kids were building a snowman at the end of the street.

“You’ve got a knack for seduction, hm?”

“There was a time in my life where I was actually charming enough not to scare off _every_ boy my age, much to the past neighbors’ dismay.”

“What were you like? Here.”

Arthur mulled it over. “Human. Save for the weekends when Martin would load up that old truck with gear and take me… out.” He shook his head. “Out of all the places, the houses and apartments and even that old ranch out in Nowheresville, _this_ place…” He propped his head on his hand, his elbow on the armrest. He shook his head. “It started _here_ , Eames. First time I got in that truck and I shot someone from a movie theater rooftop that I didn't even know. Some guy he had a picture of.” He released a heavy sigh. “Guess it just fits that it would end here too.”

Eames frowned at him before checking his phone. “Address checks out. And… there’s the man of the hour himself.”

Cobb was bundled up in a big coat, taking trash out. It was unnerving, seeing him wave at those kids down the block before hurrying back inside. Human, indeed. “Look, Arthur, if you changed your mind about talking to her?” He asked, dialing Ariadne's number. “You don’t have to.”

“I have to go.”

“Okay.”

“I'm so tired, Eames.” Eames heard Arthur mutter as he spoke to Ariadne.

He sat in silence then, waiting for Eames to end the call.

“Police will be here with SWAT in twenty minutes. That's all you've got.”

Arthur took a deep breath. Then another. He nodded slowly as he exhaled. “Okay.”

He leaned over. For a split second Eames froze, expecting to be handcuffed again, but Arthur only kissed him sweetly. He caressed Eames’ cheeks. “Thank you for your love, Eames. It's a gift I won't soon release from my heart.”

Eames’ stomach twisted into knots. Arthur’s quietness, his sad smiles, even his testimony before, it all now began to make sense to him.

“Wait.” Eames grabbed Arthur before he could leave the car. He held him in an iron grip under his coat, his face pressed to his neck. “You don't have to do this.”

Arthur turned and nuzzled his face. He held it, kissing him again. “I… I have to. I have a choice now, Eames. I’m going to do what’s right.”

“No. You’ve already given enough, Arthur. You don’t have to go further. You will… You were run through in that hospital, you were beaten in the hands of every policeman who held you, you were already attacked in holding.”

“He’s giving up, Eames. I know this house. I know what it means now. Dominic, and Mallorie, if she’s here, they’re trapped. They know it. It’s over. It’s been over for a while. We all know that.”

“You don’t have to follow them now,” he argued, gripping Arthur’s coat, his eyes burning. “You’ll die in prison. _That_ is what we both know. I’m not letting you go again. Not like this.”

“I need to do this.”

Eames hurried after him, reaching for his arm, but Arthur was determined now. To think that this had been what Eames had hoped for from the very beginning, that Arthur would lead him to this place and turn himself in willingly. Now, it was eating Eames’ heart, tearing at his soul.

Arthur cut across the yard, leaving tracks in the snow, his bare hands balling into fists.

“Arthur,” Eames hissed, pausing when he saw Cobb move in the house in front of the window’s opened curtains. “Come back!”

Cobb burst out of the door, swinging the screen back hard against the wall the moment Arthur’s foot touched the first step. He stopped him in his tracks with a shotgun pointed at Arthur’s face. “The hell are you doing here?”

Arthur slipped his hands into his pocket and let the wind muse his hair. Unbelievably relaxed. “I can’t bring my boyfriend to my parents? I thought this family was much more open than that. You’re embarrassing me, ‘Martin’.”

“Arthur…” Cobb stood firm, ready to shoot as if Arthur were a fox with his paw in the chicken coop doorway. “Look, I don’t think it’s a great idea for you to come around here. Mal and I aren't leaving, she’s too far gone. And you’re pissed, and I don’t know how you could be if you knew the whole truth, and frankly, at this point, I know how you get when you’ve made up your mind. Just go, Arthur. Take your guy and go someplace where Browning doesn’t have his hands around your neck.”

Eames approached slowly, but Arthur glanced his way, stopping him.

Arthur took a deep breath. He turned out his pockets. “Can we talk?”

“What’s left, Arthur?” Cobb sounded tired. His expression softened. “You’re gonna come in and kill us for what? It’s over. If he’s here, I know others aren’t far behind.”

Arthur shrugged, but his anger made his jaw tight. “I just want to hear it from your mouth… and _hers_.”

“I'm not letting you get pass me. You've already made it clear how you feel about us. And she's… already drowning in guilt enough. Just go. Forget us. Let her live her last days in peace, Arthur.”

“Like my mother? Did she get to have any peace under that woman’s care?”

“Both of us did things we won't ever be proud of, for reasons none of us can justify. Not even you can argue that, Arthur. You've got plenty ghosts yourself.”

“And I don't hide them!” Arthur came a step closer as if invincible to the gun pointed at him. “I don't hide them,” he said softer.

Cobb chuckled quietly. “No, you don't. You just warp them all into shapes more terrifying than you so you can call yourself a victim. I can't imagine what stories you must have told him to get him so firmly on your side,” he said of Eames, never sparing him a glance.

Arthur shook his head. “Even now, you try to demonize me to save yourself. You can't. There isn't a rock left to be overturned. You can't blame me anymore. The feds know everything you did. Both of you. You were monsters long before I learned how to walk.”

Cobb was panting now, shifting on his feet. He shook his head quickly. “We fought for you. We did, but in the end… It was dumb of us to think we could control Browning, I admit that, but it was…” His face tensed in pain for a moment, his breath puffing out like smoke clouds in the crisp ray of sun. “We couldn’t control you. Who you were born to be or… _what_ you had been born to be. You, Arthur, you… You’re _his_ blood. Can't be changed, much as we tried. And, buddy, we tried.”

“You tried to kill me! And _she_ poisoned me for years!”

"Arthur, be careful," Eames warned as he watched a million emotions fleet across Cobb's face.

Cobb cursed under his breath, surprising Eames when he brazenly lower the gun. “You got us…. Okay? We once lived fast and loose and didn't give a shit about other people. We had two kids. Before. We fucked up and the state took them and we made damn sure not to let that happen again because we were already dipping our toes into something that we couldn't get out of. We didn't want you, at first. We wanted our money and we wanted to live lives where we couldn't disappoint anybody who depended on us because there was nobody else.”

At Arthur’s open confusion, Cobb nodded quickly, still breathing hard, forcing out his words. “Yeah. We didn’t want you because we knew then that things… maybe wouldn’t have gone this far south, but it couldn’t be good for you, for anybody innocent to be brought into our w—”

They all heard a loud clatter from inside and a heavy thud.

“Mal?” Cobb yelled, glancing back when she didn’t respond. “Mal!”

Arthur shot forward, blocked for a moment but grabbed the barrel of Cobb’s gun and shouldered past him before Eames could stop him.

“Arthur!” Eames chased them both into the house. It was dark with all the drapes pulled tightly closed.

He paused, seeing Arthur stand transfixed with Cobb beside him at the foot of the stairs where pills were scattered and a vase was broken. They watched Mallorie Cobb stagger down the dark hall, her robe falling forgotten from her shoulder in her haze.

“Dom,” she whispered, stumbling as she reached a hand out at random, searching for him but it was Arthur who caught her when she collapsed.

Cobb sank against the wall in shock. “Jesus, Mal,” he sighed, “what did you do?”

Eames stepped closer, his boot crunching one pill underfoot, empty bottles rolling. “She’s killing herself.”

Cobb lunged for Eames, slamming his back to the wall. “Do something! Call somebody! Send for help!”

“It’s too late,” they heard Arthur mutter. He brushed her hair from her face, looking to them like a lost, little boy.

Cobb stumbled to them, forgetting his fear or Arthur’s closeness he held her and Arthur both. “Oh, Mal, why did you do this?”

She wheezed, her eyes rolling as Arthur sat up her and shook her gently to rouse her. She grimaced, but smiled when Arthur fixed her robe over her nightgown. “You did it,” she sighed to him, her words slurring more as she patted his cheek. “Your eyes… For so long, it seemed… that you were never… never be free, but… your eyes are clearer than I can remember them. You found a way to free yourself… as I… must do now.” She cried, closing her eyes when Cobb reached to wipe away her tears. “No… let me carry my shame. Arthur… I am… so sorry. I shattered your trust.”

Arthur startled when Eames touched his shoulders.

Eames looked to the windows. “We’re running out of time.”

“I…” Arthur shook his head. “I need… just a minute more. I’ll follow you, okay?”

“Arthur, nothing more can come from this. We—”

“Please, I just,” Arthur sighed, rooted in total confusion. “Just keep the car running for me.”

Eames released the breath he’d been holding, hearing that quiet confirmation that Arthur really would follow. “Listen for the horn.”

Arthur nodded quickly, returning his pained expression to Mallorie.

Outside, the snow was falling again. Great, big flakes clung to his coat and hat even as he stood on the porch. He was almost too afraid to go further.

If Arthur's pain weren't so raw, Eames would have been convinced that he'd hear the sound of a gun going off the moment he reached the last step. Now though, his only fear was that he'd be driving away alone.

He walked slowly, refusing to let his mind tread there. Arthur was so… impossibly bound to those two people. The good, the bad, everything. Eames had been caught up in his father’s storm so briefly, but this was an entire life of being dragged down one dark pit after another, for a lifetime for Arthur. He had seen an undeniable rage in Arthur, but could it outlast the undeniable tether Arthur had to them both?

His phone buzzed as he crossed the yard. “Yusuf?”

He could hear snow crunching behind him, certain it was Arthur until the voice on the phone matched the one speaking to him in the yard, chilling him to the bone.

“Hello, Eamesie,” Adeyemi said, striking Eames with handle of his gun before he could turn to him.

Eames grunted as he crashed into the side of his car. He sent his elbow into Adeyemi’s chest and had to duck when Adeyemi swung at him again, catching the window instead and breaking it before Eames slipped. He was hit again, harder.

Eames groaned in the snow, hearing that familiar chuckle above him as his vision grew spotty and darkened.

Adeyemi hooked his arms under Eames’ and dragged him through the snow, grunting. “And where is your little minx, I wonder? Couldn’t stomach watching him slaughter his own family, huh could you? You were always too short sighted, and Hell, if I'd known it'd be this easy to take you down by just wiggling  a little piece of ass in your face, I'd have done it _years_ ago. Oh well.”

Eames struggled even as his consciousness waned, growling in his anger as he felt the man rifle for his keys.

Adeyemi lifted him into the backseat, duck-taping his hands and feet and stuffing a rag in his mouth.

Eames swooned as the car moved, the windshield wipers beating back against the falling snow. He could feel a hot trickle of blood on his temple, but still he fought, weaker and weaker still.

“Don't worry yet, mate,” Adeyemi told him, driving off down the street as casually as a man who wanted to be caught, and Eames couldn't fault him that. He needed Arthur to see that he was gone and with who.

“Oh, settle down, Eamesie. You aren't going to die just yet. No, the big man on top wants to meet you first. But after that, however, you and I are going to have a long, long day, mate. So you just sit tight until then.”

+

 

Cobb swallowed hard, rubbing his thighs for a moment before he stood. “I want… she not gonna die on the floor like some animal. I want to put on her the couch, where she can… rest and be comfortable. Will I get bullets in my back from you if I do that?”

Arthur was at the bottom of an empty well, somewhere out deep in the first of sky high trees and thick roots, in his mind. His hands were bloody, hurting from the bites of the fox he held in his lap, watching the rope descend to climb back up. And there was Martin at the top, haloed in the fog above and framed by the trees, like a ghost. He needed to return, but his hands were full of the fox he knew he needed to bring up with him. How could he do both with only two hands?

He blinked, looking away from Cobb and shook his head in silence, rising and stumbling a little with Mallorie in his arms to help carry her.

She groaned, whimpering, but her brow furrowed as her dead arms reached blindly for Arthur's hands again. “I prefer the pain. It is… my only…” She shook her head, grimacing in her effort to smile.

Cobb’s hand felt too heavy on his shoulder. “You have wounds that need tending to.”

“They were your gifts.” Were they? “One, least.”

“You need to keep them clean. You'll be in trouble if you don't.”

“Your wife is dying.”

“You plan on joining her? Let me give you my pack to take with you.”

Arthur nodded, numb but his eyes were burning, his chest a cavern of molten anger and sadness now as he sat with her, this woman he barely knew now. “This is easy for you,” he whispered. “You get to leave without so much as an excuse.”

“No,” she rasped. “Know... that I did love you and I still do. You came into our lives… already so… so hurt… by Peter, but you… You spent a day, a single day with me, and Dom... and Arthur, you… you blossomed into… into a beautiful, lively child,” she sighed, gazing past him fondly, “who smiled with dimples and laughed with a free spirit, and who cried when... when we had to take you back to him. You have been my… my… _whole_ heart ever since then.”

Cobb hovered, his jaw tight as he glared at Arthur, standing close to his side, the duffle bag clutched in his fist. “You asked me for the truth,” he muttered, his voice trembling with emotion. “Well you want the truth, Arthur? That dropped you into Mal’s lap for you to die at six so he could write you off as just another kid failed by a medical experiment, just like he did his wife, your… your ‘real’ mother, so he could wash his hands clean of you both. We took you all the way to Alaska to get you _out_ of his sights but when you started acting out, we couldn't hide you anymore. Argue with me all you like, I don't care. We… _You_ left too many bodies behind already. We didn't have a choice. Hate us all you want, try to kill us all you want it doesn't change anything that we still feel for you. Arthur you changed our lives. And fuck if it didn't make a difference. Fuck if we couldn't just up and leave that life and take you someplace where we could be good parents for you, but we still made it work. _You were happy with us_. I know you've already got some… brand new story of us in that head of yours, but I know you remember how happy you were.

Cobb dropped the bag and sat back in the nearest chair with a sigh, his eyes closing for a long moment, exhausted. When Arthur didn't speak, he eyed him, asking, “So you and your guy were planning on hiding out here?”

Arthur had been lost staring at Mallorie again. He tilted his head when Cobb cracked his eyes at him again for his silence. “You called me here.”

Cobb frowned. “No?”

Arthur nodded. “I—We found your note to me. In my pocket.”

Cobb sat forward, shaking his head. “No, no, no. I didn’t.”

Arthur stepped back, frowning. He fiddled with the barrel of the rifle leaning against the side of Cobb's chair. His mind raced.

“I wouldn't have called for you with you that angry, no. You're my son, but I'm no idiot. After we fought, I washed my hands clean and I left with Mal. I couldn't trust you anymore. I'm sorry for… everything. I mean that.”

Arthur inhaled deeply. He massaged his jaw, feeling rigid in his joints. His anger burned in his bones. “Excuse me.”

Cobb watched him turn his back and lean down to stroke Mallorie’s hair. “Arthur—”

A shot rang out behind them. The bullet seemed to cut through the air in slow motion, fluttering Arthur’s hair as it clipped the shell of his ear and shattered the glass from a picture framed on the wall.

He hit the floor as Cobb ducked, both shielded by Cobb's chair.

“Arthur!” Cobb called to him, kneeling near the chair arm with his shotgun, peering and firing, missing, just as the gunmen shot from behind the front door and the mouth of the staircase.

Arthur lay flat on his stomach, spotting two pairs of black shoes. Both too expensive for agents or police. He glanced back at Mallorie, who was too far gone to even flinch from the bullets flying.  
He ripped a handgun from under the chair and shot at the gunman's shoe not hidden by the doorway. The man yelled out, falling to his knees. He was killed swiftly, his face a mess of blood and flesh on the old carpet.

He could hear Cobb’s ragged breaths as blood pooled in his ear and trickled down his jaw. He looked to him, seeing the tremor in Cobb’s hands as Cobb and the last gunman peered out at the same time. Cobb was faster, nonetheless, his aim precise.

He was quicker to his feet then Arthur was. “You okay?”

Arthur grimaced as he touched his ear and tucked his bloody hair behind it. “Leave it.”

Cobb took his arm, helping him up. “You've got that look in your eyes again.”

Arthur shouldered him off, his hands balling in fists. “What look?”

“That look that tells me you're about to start more trouble.”

Arthur huffed. He walked to the door, knowing there wasn't a rush now, that he was already too late, but was Eames alive or dead still, he had yet to discover. “In spite of _everything_ that _I've_ ever done?” He glared back at Cobb. “My trouble was always _your_ trouble first.”

Cobb opened his mouth, no doubt with an argument on his tongue but he swallowed it back, following after him. “You know, that with… every single little ounce of… whatever we got left, that me and Mal are sorry, Arthur.”

“Too late.” Arthur stood on the cold porch, staring at Eames’ shattered phone in the driveway’s snow and the broken glass further down on the street where his car had been. But no blood, no sign for now that he'd been killed.

Cobb saw it too. He stood at Arthur's side, raking his hand through his hair as police sirens drifted up louder and louder in the air, getting closer. “What do you need from me?”

“You can give me your contract phone,” Arthur said at last, “and your truck keys. And you can sit with her and go quietly to the police, or shoot yourself. I don't care. Just do whatever you need to do to make sure I never see or hear from you again.”

“You can take care of yourself?” Cobb asked, back in the house as he reloaded his shotgun. “With them?”

Arthur snorted, wishing he could break Dominic Cobb’s nose again as he tucked the spare gun in his pants, but his vision was tilting already, his stress and pain putting cracks and leaks into the dam his mind was building. “Was I ever left with a choice?” He turned to him, catching the duffle bag and and keys, ready to storm out, but he paused.

There were a million things he could say, yell, argue, a million questions he needed to ask, but he was out of time and those words were buried too deep inside of him to search for them now. “Thanks,” was all he could muster, “for…” He sighed. “Good luck.” He glanced at Mallorie, surprised by how painful it was. She was gazing at him, perhaps unseeing, fading, her voice a harsh rasp Arthur knew he'd never outlive as she tried to speak, but couldn't either.

The old truck rattled and roared like a bear. He shook as he drove down the street, the voices in his head all screaming in unison, louder and louder, unravelling.

He stopped at the end of the block, waiting, seeing the first of the police begin to the fill the street in front of their house.

Cobb emerged alone, his rifle raised all over again.

And in that moment, he was Martin. He was Arthur Harris’s father, barging out in a blaze of gunfire. The only father Arthur had ever deserved. Had ever _needed_.

He hid his face against the steering wheel, covering his ears as shots cut through the air, tearing apart the careful quiet of the neighborhood. Cobb’s battle with the police was over before it had really begun. Two injured cops, and Martin Harris, bleeding out on the snow covered porch steps, dead.

Like Mallorie. He had chased the two pillars of his life to their ends and even now, he felt hollow, raw. Alone out in the wilderness.

Arthur screamed behind his hand. He could have ripped out the wheel in his rage but he glared from the rear view mirror to the blocked glow of the setting sun behind the snow clouds before him, imagining it glowing and blinding with its harsh light.

He dialed the only number in the little cheap phone, waiting for the voicemail recording as he scrolled through the list of missed calls and those received, all the same three area codes.

 

Eames had to admit, he hadn't been this banged up since his days of getting bullied on the playground as a kid. He knew Adeyemi had been none too gentle transporting him to… wherever here was and in Eames’ age, he was paying for all the fistfights and midnight hospital breakouts.

He stirred, groaning, and knew at once that his hands were bound behind his back. He sat up straighter, tugging on the grey tape, but even if he could escape, how far could he get with Browning’s happy helpers all patrolling the lower level of the garage.

“Where am I?”

The man, whose shiny shoes had been a focal point of Eames’ sharpening vision, chuckled deeply and rough. “Only my home away from home,” Browning said, standing, his polished shoes crunching on the plastic lining the expansive living room floor under their feet. “Just take a whiff of that fresh pine and cedar. The wife loves coming here in the winter, which was a big surprise for me, thinking that California gal would want a vacation house in the Virgin Islands instead of Woodstock.”

Eames watched him chuckle and pour himself a drink. Beyond the massive windows and the patio doors, was all snow and forests.

“She looks damn good in a fur coat, so who really can complain, am I right?” Browning's eyes narrowed. “Then again, from what I've heard of you, that's not really your thing, is it?”

Eames huffed. “I got bashed over the head and dragged here so you could ask me dating questions? If you wanted to inquire about your _son’s_ new boyfriend, you could have phoned him.”

Browning's face hardened further. He glanced just behind Eames before taking another drink.

Adeyemi smacked Eames’ head hard enough to give him pause. “Told you he was a character, boss.” He grabbed Eames by the throat suddenly, choking him as he smiled at Browning. “You quite done with this chat yet?”

Browning swirled his drink in the little glass before setting it down. He nodded, smiling back as he approached Eames with the poker from the fireplace. He pointed it at Eames’ chest. “I hope you understand there's no hard feelings between us.”

“Oh really?”

“You bet. Adeyemi and I both agree. You were a damn good agent and put a lot of bad people away, but once you messed with my business, I had to put you down.”

Eames laughed, feeling breathless. “This changes nothing. You and your wife should have picked a house a little closer to the border, though Canada would be hard pressed to want to harbor you, considering what you've done, considering what the FBI has in evidence against your entire operation.”

“You mean _Mallorie Cobb’s_ operation. Adeyemi here has a stack a mile high to dump whatever needs to be cleaned up all on her, and from what I can tell by the time,” he said, looking at his watch, “Adeyemi’s agents and a swarm of police have taken them _all_ down.”

Eames laughed harder, shaking his head, even though it gut him to think of Arthur dead, but he knew him too well. It wasn't over with him, and if it was, then he'd be happy following him under. “Doesn't matter what happens to either of us now, you're too late. And _my_ agents will stop at nothing to bring you both down. You're finished. It's over for you.”

He flinched as Browning raised the iron rod, ready to swing just as Adeyemi's phone rang.

He could see him from the reflection on a vase, holding up his arm to make Browning pause.

Adeyemi's brow furrowed as he looked at the number. “You gotta be fucking kidding me. These people are like cockroaches.” He tossed the phone to Browning.

“Well, I’ll be damned. So much for you and your god damned plans, Adeyemi.” He sneered, but took a breath before answering. “Bonjour?”

Eames watched as Browning’s face turned more sinister before he eyed Eames. “Come on over then, join the party. I’ll send you my personal assistant to help you find your way.”

Browning ended the call and threw the phone at Adeyemi. “I'm getting sick of you; you know that? You fuck up again, and you and I are going to have serious problems.”

Adeyemi sighed, the sound a graveled, angry thing, but he made no comment, beginning to leave before Browning stopped him.

“I want you to kill him the _second_ you both reach the edge of the woods so I can watch, okay? Think you can handle it?”

Adeyemi's brow rose as he turned to Browning. “Insult my intelligence again, _civilian_ , or make more threats… Go on. I dare you.”

Browning huffed. He dropped the poker back in front if the fire. “Well, Agent Eames, looks like we're in for a show. My boy ought to be coming up through the woods just over there _if_ Adeyemi doesn't get in over his head.” He passed the chair he'd been sitting in before, plucking up his drink again as he spoke over his shoulder, leaving. “So let's see, once and for all, if that little psycho is really worth the name Black Mamba, hm?”

 

Arthur stared at the phone, not at all expecting the voice that answered his call.

 _The_ voice, that had haunted him for far longer than even he knew now. 

The muffled voice like a thousand different echos, a thousand different beings all filling his head, all one, _this_ one, that had filled the silences surrounding the faceless woman of his dreams, voices that had both guided him through life and had tormented and confused him all the same.

Like a key in the door lock of his mind, that voice opened up memories and visions he'd long thought imagined. The yellow-billed magpie with a nest high in the tree on the outskirts of the hospital where his mother lived, the spider in its web in the window of Martin’s old shed, the nurses, both his and his mother’s… The blood, on his clothes, on the bed where his mother had first opened her wrists _and_ his as he'd napped in her arms…

And that voice. Its lies, and that sympathy and concern so fake, even a four year old could tell. There had been no one to attach it to either, only the presence of those hands on his shoulders and that voice as he'd stood behind Arthur's chair time and again before disappearing with some young woman on his arm.

He tossed the phone in the passenger seat, taking a breath.

He gripped the mirror and glared at his own reflection, his anger encasing him in a tar that he was content to never wash away. “You can all fall apart in there,” he grit out. “You can all shred my mind into nothing all you want… _after_ you get me to Peter Browning. He isn’t Cobb’s problem anymore or Mallorie’s. He’s mine.”

+

 

 

 


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YIKES! I WAS SO READY TO POST THIS I FORGOT SOME VERY IMPORTANT THINGS TO POINT OUT!!!
> 
> FIRST, I GOT TO THANK TAMAT9 FOR THE Y E A R S SHE SPENT COACHING AND HELPING AND BETAING (AND BETTERING) THIS FIC WITH ME. T_____T Thank you for all the nights and early mornings you spent patiently tolerating all the agonizing I did over the chapters. XD I made a promise that I wouldn't finish this without you and I actually managed to keep a promise holy frack! @_@ 
> 
> And thank you to everybody who gave this fic soooooo much love and support throughout it all. Everybody who took time out to comment and share and subscribe, you are sooooooo important. 
> 
> Lastly, I just wanna say, I'm both over the moon to see this finished but also a little bummed and A LOT NERVOUS because going into this I had no idea it would be this hard to make a damn crime drama but here we are!
> 
> As always, comments, kudos, critiques, questions, all of it is greatly appreciated. I hope you ALL enjoy!

 

**Finale**

*****

 

++

+

 

Arthur felt almost like his old self again, slipping into the sturdy clothes and boots from Cobb’s bag. It was a feeling he wasn’t certain he was comfortable with, but he’d long since abandoned the realm of comforts the moment he and Eames had left that cabin.

He staggered out of the truck on the edge of the white forest of cedars encasing Browning’s property, his mind a war now. He let himself fall to his knees, his gloves caught between his teeth as he plunged his naked hands into the snow and closed his eyes, searching for an anchor within.

It was a chance for his mind to air its grievances, to shout and rant until those voices lost enough steam. Then he could wrestle them back into a contained space. There weren't many occasions when it worked, but it was worth it to try now.

His hands were hot with fresh blood. He balled his fists in it, letting it cover his hands and soak through the knees of his pants. It rained down on him, spotting his face and soaking hair; his ear was a loud, nagging pain itself out in the frigid cold beyond.

But it was a cold that he was used to. For far longer than he could remember, harsher snows had bit down to his bones… A frozen road, a river of ice… swallowing him under, but he'd resurfaced.

He opened his eyes, nearly blinding when he saw only white surrounding him. He sat back on his heels, scanning the trees, mapping the location of the sun glowing faintly behind the thick clouds and tree canopy. He’d never seen this forest in his life, but it didn’t matter. He’d been chewed up, spit out, faced every weakness he’d had, and grown tall, strong, dangerous in forests more overwhelming than this… all his life.

He tied his hair back, wincing at the sting and the blood drying down his neck as he stood. The snow falling even muted his steps, his breath puffing out little clouds as he slipped through the gate at the roadside, beginning his trek down the winding path, following the tire tracks in the snow.

At first, he wasn't sure if the muffled voices he heard further down were his or not, but still he left the path to creep alongside it in thicker woods, stepping past fallen logs and stray branches easy to snap and make noise. There were eight men gathered around the turn, all heavily armed and quite comfortable as they joked loudly with each other, standing loosely at this makeshift post with a large SUV blocking the road behind them.

Arthur crouched low behind a small cedar, lamenting the five meager bullets he had.

Until a plan began to form. When had he been outmanned and outgunned before, in the cold wilderness? He tossed a stone over into a larger tree, knocking snow from its pine needles just to be certain that he wasn't reliving his past all over again, but these men were far more skilled than those boys had been. They didn't even look to see what creature must have rustled the tree.

He eased away, backtracking to the truck, his chest aching so strangely with a feeling he couldn't name the moment he lifted the bed’s tarp and touched the rusting animal traps underneath.

+

 

The clock on the wall of Browning's study, one of many Eames was sure, was a massive beast of a thing. Old red wood, pure gold plating and a crescent moon swinging every second back and forth, slicing through the air like Poe’s pendulum in the infamous pit, marking down every second that Eames was trapped, in limbo with Browing in the next room gloating with someone on the phone already.

“We're leaving here and picking up shop in Mexico. Give it a whole new brand, a new market, the works. No, no, no, relax. As far as that pesky case goes, so long as you stay in the clear, you can stay just where you are.”

It made Eames’ end feel that much more final. He _was_ that man in that pit and he was running out of time. Adeyemi could have ambushed Arthur already, and they both could be dead for all Eames and Browning knew. He simply had to make it out of here on his own and find him.

He listened to Browning’s phone ring again. The man was shouting, bickering with his wife now. His shoes echoed on the woods floors as he stormed away, slamming more than a few doors on his way further into the house. Away from Eames.

He felt at his bounds quickly, his weight making the chair creak and whine, mercifully unstable with just the right pressure but he had to find it first.

He leaned back, rocking his chair on its hind legs, feeling the chair struggle to hold itself together. It cracked.

+

 

Arthur let the cold air fill his lungs. All around him as he crouched, peering at the cluster of guards, his voices were angry, certain that the trap would fail. But they were quiet. Like kids whispering to each other in a game of hide and seek.

Several times, Arthur had to glance back, looking for the source of the sound, they felt that real.

He took a deep breath, thinking of Eames.

He let his boots crunch loudly in the snow as he stepped onto the path, his heart pounding and the voices rising. "Hey!" He shouted, earning the attention of the guards.

He disappeared into the woods as they opened fire, chasing him down the hill to a creek not yet frozen over.

They clambered nearly on top of each other to reach him, some falling behind in the icy tangle of fallen branches and dead trees. And the trap. The man’s shout filled the woods around them, only adding to the music of so many bullets flying.

Arthur cut a hard left, ducking under low hanging branches and boulders to the crippled man, shooting him in the chest before taking his weapon. He slid down into the pit of an overturned tree’s roots, aiming as a few of the others raced closer, shooting them down.

The minutes felt like years passing. He waited, watching the last of them slowly make it down the hill, hiding and ducking behind trees themselves. Clumsy in the snow, their black coats like moving billboard targets against the white snow.

 

Arthur hurried with labored breaths back up the hill towards the road.

He stopped at the top to look back at the bodies he'd left, feeling raw in a strange way. Already the snow was peppering those black coats and would cover them, given a few hours. Familiar. Like déjà vu more than a memory, but there was no time for it.

All was quiet in the falling snow now. He reached the SUV and peered into the tinted window on driver's side before he opened the door. Only he hesitated, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand.

He spun quickly, catching Adeyemi in the gut with his knee but the man had a fistful of Arthur's collar. His punch cut Arthur's lip, the next catching him in the jaw.

He was slammed against the vehicle, his back covered as Adeyemi twisted his arm in an iron grip and shoved a knife in his side. Arthur screamed as pain shot through his ribs.

“Oh, boy,” Adeyemi teased, as Arthur tried to reach back and break Adeyemi's hold, to pull the knife out, but Adeyemi kicked the back of his knee, bringing him down. “Oh Arthur, why did you have to come out here, huh? You should have ran, mate! You should have drove off into the sunset and never looked back.”

Arthur squeezed tears from his eyes as that knife was driven in deeper. He could feel his blood begin to wet his sweater and shirt as he was dragged away from the SUV.

“You were free,” the man was saying to him, his voice dripping with condescension. “You could have disappeared and started over somewhere. Now look at you. Silly boy. You're too late, anyways. Eames? He's dead,” he sighed, chuckling at Arthur's pained growl. “It's true. I emptied his throat myself, for my employer. With this knife, no less. Isn't that romantic?"

Arthur froze, his eyes to the sky as he braced for that knife to twist or find itself in his gut, or worse.

He braced to die here. He gripped Adeyemi's wrist as if some scared little part of him was afraid to have it leave his body, but Adeyemi was content to keep it firmly planted, just to have that pain keep Arthur down. 

“You're lying," Arthur grit out, unable to tolerate this limbo any longer. He smiled up at the treetops, his ribs burning as he laughed breathlessly. “You're an awful… replacement, if you were the one… all along… who took Dan’s place.” He sank to his hands as Adeyemi's grip never wavered, even as his vision did.

“Yeah? How so?”

Arthur panted, feeling the warmth of his blood heavy on his side. “Dan would have… just put a bullet… in my head _way_ back, instead of…” He huffed, glancing down at himself. “All of these... theatrics.”

“Yeah, I know. It's not my style, in truth, all this," Adeyemi sighed, letting go of the knife's handle to draw a gun from his holster and press it under Arthur's chin. "Better? I certainly think so."

It was instinctual to try and shy away from the metal against his skin, but it only made his breath catch in pain more. Arthur closed his eyes, his jaw tight in pain, strangled by a fear he didn't know he was still capable of. Not a fear for dying, but of never seeing Eames free and safe again.

“I would just _love_ to take your advice and waste your pretty head all over this driveway," he heard Adeyemi whisper, seething. "Unfortunately for me, I work for a man who loves those theatrics so I don't get to have what I want. Not yet anyhow." He tucked his gun back under his coat. "Your old man wants to watch me kill you, only he can't from way out here, so…”

Arthur shouted when he was moved suddenly, his consciousness slipping as he was grabbed by the collar. He tried to lift his limbs to reach the knife again, but he was slipping into blackness as Adeyemi searched the SUV for keys but found none.

Adeyemi shook him by the neck to rouse him, leaning close enough for their steaming breaths to mix into one cloud. "We've got a short, little hike up the road, so don't ruin the big moment and bleed out before we get there, alright?" He brush his thumb over the blood on Arthur's mouth and smeared it like lipstick. He smirked when he patted Arthur's cheek. "Stay with me. Good boy."

+

 

Eames had to take a moment to catch his breath on the floor after breaking the chair and getting his hands in front of him. He grimaced as he broke the tape, his wrists red and aching now but he quickly hurried to the door, peering out at the backs of guards everywhere he looked.

“Okay," he grunted, winded, "not that easy. Fine.”

Through the patio doors, there was only wide open snow until the edge of the forest. Where this forest led to, wasn't a gamble Eames was ready to make. He'd need a truck to get through the snowy road in the mouth of the forest at the opposite side of the house. He needed to find the garage. He needed…

“Ariadne.” He searched his pockets, hoping and praying, to find so much as a piece of paper with her or Yusuf's number on it. He hesitated to use the phone in the room, but by the sound of Browning's voice drifting back closer and closer to his office, Eames was running out of options.

He picked up the ornate phone, fumbling as he turned the dial with each number of the Bureau’s office and then the police themselves.

Shots echoed on the wind, coming from the line of trees so faintly, he nearly missed them.

He froze, thinking of Arthur. The shots could be from hunters, or rowdy kids, or anything other than Arthur in the woods without backup or even a gun as far as Eames knew.

His hands were shaking as he searched the room for a weapon of his own.

"And just where do you think you're going?"

+

 

Arthur woke up with the world swinging upside down. A long rope of blood trailed in a zigzag line on the sky's snowy road, dripping up as his hair did, slipping loose from the tie. He watched his arms sway behind Adeyemi’s back as he was carried like a sack over his shoulder.

That throbbing, burning pain up and down his ribs, his spine, it crushed him, choked his every breath. He tried to will his limbs to move. One did, pulling back to grip the knife still wedged in his ribs. He squeezed tears from his eyes, his vision blurring for a moment as he let the weight of his tired arm pull the knife free.

It felt as if he'd put a hole in his own balloon. More blood, more lines of red dotting the path. He was entranced by it for a moment. How easily his life was slipping right out of him. He was unable to remember how much blood a body needed to keep going. It made his palm slippery, but he gripped the knife’s handle, his growl cutting through the melodic crunch of Adeyemi's boots in the snow as he took the knife in both hands and drove it hard into Adeyemi's back.

The man’s roar sent a cluster of deer scampering through the line of trees and up the slope. Adeyemi twisted around, his back arching as Arthur ripped the knife from him only to drive it in again before he was dropped to the ground.

Arthur hopped to his feet, stumbling but he swung the knife for Adeyemi's throat, missing by a hair. It was all the man needed to pull out his gun and aim as he staggered back from Arthur and pulled the trigger at the clouds above.

Arthur ducked behind the nearest tree as Adeyemi fired again, his bullet hitting the bark. Arthur closed his eyes and wrapped his arm around his side, sinking down the tree as he grimaced in pain.

He heard the man laugh triumphantly, the snow crunching in a deafening volume in his head as Adeyemi neared closer.

“You know what, boy? Fuck Peter Browning,” Adeyemi shouted as he shot at the tree again. “I'm going to enjoy this, Arthur, far more than you can possibly imagine!”

Far beyond them and overhead in the trees, every bird had seemed to still into silence, along with the voices within. Even the air itself felt frozen in time. Only their two panting, tired, hurting breaths rang in his ears.

“Come out, come out, you snake! Don't you want to die like a man instead of pissing yourself behind a tree like a coward?”

Arthur huffed out a quiet laugh, his heart beating itself into a shattered little pile of glass on his stomach. He held his breath.

“Come on, Arthur. Say goodbye to Eames. I want to hear it. I want to know what the Black Mamba sounds like when he's defeated, Arthur, come on, boy!”

Arthur sighed, and swallowed past the biting cold stinging his throat. He shook his head to himself, taking another breath. The snow crunched on the other side of the tree. He turned slowly, catching Adeyemi's shadow on the snow and tracking it.

Adeyemi lunged around the tree, expecting to empty his gun into Arthur's head, but Arthur was ready. He ducked the shot and rose quickly, catching Adeyemi by the wrist. He forced the knife through the man's hand, pinning it to the tree.

He used his body to drive the knife deeper, staining the tree bark in blood before he plucked the gun from the snow as Adeyemi's screams filled the skies.

Arthur watched his struggle. Adeyemi collapsed against the tree, caught between the need to free himself and not move an inch lest he sever his hand.

“Goodbye,” Arthur panted, the word drowned out as he counted the gun’s bullets and fired one into Adeyemi's leg, keeping him firmly planted, and alive. "I hope you enjoy jail as much as I did."

He stumbled back, wrapping his arm around his waist, wheezing and coughing up blood. He whipped it off his chin quickly and shouldered out of his coat and sweater with a groan rumbling in his chest. He bit his tongue and ignored all the red on his undershirt as he twisted the sweater and wrapped it around his waist over his wound, tying it tightly.

He looked up the path towards Browning's house, exhausted as he picked up his coat, but he let his feet move him forward, abandoning Adeyemi to wallow in the snow, his screams more and more frantic the more distance Arthur put between them.

+ 

 

Eames crashed into the corner desk and a bookshelf with the guard on top of him, sending its contents to the floor and thankfully, the guard’s handgun too.

He took a fist to his rib but he kneed him off, fighting him with everything he had just to get to the gun on the floor before Browning could return. He trapped his neck in a headlock, climbing on the guard’s back and braced for the fall.

The guard rolled him off and reach for the pistol, but Eames covered him, knocking the gun further away in his struggle.

He was shouldered and knocked away, his panic rising only sky high when the guard caught the gun and turned on Eames. He grabbed him, clutching at his wrists as he tackled him against the bookshelf only to find himself turned and pinned.

The shot rang out so loud and so suddenly, Eames flinched. It hadn't been his finger that pulled the trigger. Surely he'd been hit though he felt no pain. But the guard was dead weight against him, sinking lifeless to the floor.

Arthur stood in the doorway, his gun still drawn on the guard for a moment before he moved to get to Eames, but he paused, hearing Browning's gun click the same time Eames saw him in his peripheral.

“Drop it, kid,” Browning warned, his gun pointed at Eames.

Arthur sighed to the ceiling, rolling his eyes as he placed his gun on the coffee table and turned to Browning with his hands raised. His lips were bloody when he smiled at the man. “Well, at least I know for sure I didn't get _all_ my good looks from my mother.”

Browning chuckled, eyeing Arthur. “Dom didn't lie when he said you were a charmer. That's too bad. You and I could have gone places, kid. Hell, we still could.” He stepped closer, pressing the gun to Eames’ chest. “You obviously disposed of my last two happy helpers, Cobb and Adeyemi. And you know the ropes, the ends and outs of the job.”

Arthur laughed, but he choked, holding his side, looking a little gray in the face, his teeth bloody as he sneered. “You really think I'm that dumb. After everything?”

“It certainly was worth a shot. Speaking of which, both of you,” he ordered, his smile vanishing into his own sneer, “get on the floor. Let's make this clean.”

But neither Arthur or Eames moved. Their eyes met only for a moment but it was enough to have Browning stepping back from Eames to point the gun at both of them and then to the floor where he fired a warning shot.

“Is that supposed to scare me?” Arthur lowered his hands. They were bloody. “You don't know what I've done,” he murmured, taking a step forward, his eyes wild. “What I had to give, what I lost, just to get to this place.”

Browning laughed. “Again, I'm flattered, but it's over, _Sammy_. It's over.”

“Was that my name, who I used to be?” Arthur smiled, shaking his head. “That kid’s long gone. You don't know what I'm capable of… If you did, you would have killed me right along with her a _long_ , long time ago.”

Eames’ heart raced. Arthur was still closing in slowly, step by step towards Browning. Closer and closer to death if he wasn't cautious. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur hushed him with a bloody hand, stepping past Eames’ arm when he sought to stop him. “It's okay. This man doesn't have it in him, do you Browning?”

Browning tilted his head, that posture so painfully familiar to Eames. But it didn't remind him of Arthur at all, no these two didn't even share a likeness the way Arthur and his mother did.

What Eames saw was his own fear mirrored in Browning. That first night, staring down Arthur with a gun that might as well have been a toy to a man so utterly fearless. It had left him once paralyzed in that panther’s gaze, as Nash had been, as Browning was now, shifting minutely with sweat shining on his brow, his palm no doubt getting slippery around that gun.

He didn't see Eames move, nothing but Arthur, pale as a ghost and yet no less a threat than he had ever been.

“Come on,” Arthur dared. “Finish it. Finish _me_. You already had my mother killed, you've had me, my dad, his wife, all of us have killed for you, but what have you ever done yourself? My blood’s already ruining your rug, so what's a bit more? Don't you want to know what it's like?” His voice raised, anger overflowing. “Well, Peter? No?”

He advanced so quickly, Browning shot at the ceiling when Arthur caught his wrist, twisting the gun from his grip and punched him with everything he had, sending the man to the ground.

He struck him with the butt of the gun but Eames wrestled it from him, quick to tie the unconscious man to the table leg with his own belt.

Eames sat back on his heels, catching his breath. “Arthur,” he panted, his back turned as he collected himself, “you have _got_ to stop bloody scaring me like that. You know I'm old and bloody feeble.”

He glanced over his shoulder, seeing Arthur collapse on his side. “Arthur!”

Eames rushed to him and turned him on his back as Arthur gasped, choking on every shallow breath to fought to take. He pulled Arthur's hand away from where it had been covering the sweater that was tied over a soaked wound.

Eames felt dizzy seeing so much blood when he peeled back the sweater. “Jesus, boy, you look like Hell.”

Arthur's glared. “Thanks,” he choked, trying to take in air. “Just got back.” He coughed, bringing up more blood from his throat. He was drowning in it.

“No, no, no.” Eames cradled him, awash with dread and grief. “No, you're not dying, this isn't happening!” He patted his face, trying to rouse him, his own hand wet with blood now as he reached to help stop him from bleeding out. “Arthur, come on!”

Arthur shook his head, his lashes wet with tears. He gritted his bloody teeth, trying to take a deep breath. He coughed up more blood.

His hands clutched Eames’ arm, trying to ease him away from his wound.

Eames sobbed, swatting them away. “Oh no you don't, you idiot, keep fighting. Ariadne will be here soon. Come on, Arthur!” He glanced up in time to hear footsteps hurrying through the house. “We're all in here! Come quick!”

Arthur's grip softened. He swooned.

“No, Arthur, please--Oh thank god,” he sighed, seeing Robert in the doorway with his gun drawn. “Call for an ambulance! Hurry!”

Robert neared them slowly, eyeing Browning. “Is he dead?”

“No, but we have to hurry--”

“I meant him.”

“Oh no, he's fine, he's just--” Eames flinched, his eyes squeezed shut when Robert opened fire on Browning, killing him. He took a breath, feeling Robert standing too near them.

“Get up.”

“Fischer, I--”

“Just get up, Eames,” he said softly, nudging him with his foot away from Arthur.

It took everything in Eames not to cling to Arthur, but he stood back, his hands raised. “I don't understand.”

Robert smiled, full of condescension. “You know what I hate more than DC? Mexico. All that heat and all those annoying Spring Break parties, and then you have to pay a fortune just to live somewhere not teaming with slums, but then there's the cartel to have to deal with, and trust me. If I had ever wanted to come that close to those kinds of drugs and people, I would have never bothered with the pharmaceutical business. Ugh.”

Eames felt as if his blood were ice cold. “You. That was you on the phone with him before?”

Robert's brow rose dramatically. “Boy, it's a good thing I came to clean this mess up. That old idiot can't even be discreet. Or _couldn't,_ considering.”

“You were working with them the whole time, right under everyone's nose, just like Adeyemi.”

“Oh for god's sake, Eames, my family owns a mental hospital. Why wouldn't I cash in? Browning gets his drugs sold, Adeyemi gets his quotas, and I get fresh new patients that the government actually pays to keep in that shithole,” he laughed. “I pump them full of shit drugs and send them back on the street...rinse, wash, repeat.” His smile faltered. He glared down at Arthur. “Like this one.”

“You son of a bitch,” Eames hissed. “You could have disappeared. Your name’s not in any of this.”

Robert huffed, shaking his head. “Except in _his_ mouth, Browning's. _Now_ I get to disappear and start over fresh. Thank you, Eames. Thank you for keeping my hands clean, even as you made your own filthy.”

Eames was turned to face Browning. Robert covered his back, forcing the gun into his hands. He tried to shoot Browning again, to frame Eames.

Eames elbowed him in the face, near growling in his anger. He didn't have the gun, and neither did Robert anymore. He caught him by his collar, his fist knocking Robert to the floor as Ariadne and her team raced down the hall towards them.

He shook him, uncaring of Robert's nose and mouth bleeding on his knuckles as he yanked him by the collar to his feet. “The next time I see you, you'll be rotting in a cell where you belong, you piece of shit!”

He dropped him, catching hold of Ariadne in a hug that would have stunned even himself, in another lifetime, perhaps, but now, changed, more weather, more wise, he clung to her. “What took you so long?”

She hugged him back quickly. “We had to peel Adeyemi off a tree,” she answered, still shocked.

Eames dropped to his knees in front of Arthur, careful as he picked him up, but police were swarming the room now, wrestling Robert and assessing Browning.

“Eames,” he heard Ariadne call to him, “you have to let him go.”

Eames was prepared to fight her, but he felt Arthur touch his chest, his finger tracing a button on his shirt. He held him close, cradling him and covering his face in hurried kisses.

His eyes stung as he watched the police and medics escort Arthur away towards the waiting ambulance, taking Eames’ heart with him as Arthur left his own behind, in Eames’ hands.

The new director stepped away from the crowds of reporters and news cameras to stand beside Eames. She tucked her wind-mussed hair behind her ear. “You still considering retirement, Eames?”

He tried to give her a smile as he nodded. “Yeah.”

“Nothing I can do to convince you to stay?”

He huffed. Clearing his throat, he patted her shoulder. “You don’t need old men like me here, Ariadne. You and your new team will be fine.”

She seemed to understand by the way she eyed him. “Just keep your phone on, then, just in case. I might need your expertise— _after_  you've recuperated and you aren’t busy on tour once you've written this case into a best-seller, which you absolutely must do.”

Eames laughed quietly, relieved when she was called away by more reporters. He made the slow trek to his car, making sure to avoid the attention. He took a moment to look in the backseat as if expecting to find Arthur hiding there, safe and sound.

 

The drive home was quiet. His mother called, but he couldn’t answer. Didn’t have the will to talk anymore, but he did promise himself that he’d hitch his boat and pack for an overdue, real vacation to the cabin.

He was surprised when he arrived home and found himself actually doing it, preparing the boat and packing a few clothes and books. 

He paused, taking a moment to look around and admire this strange, unfamiliar place, this house... that felt nothing like home anymore with Arthur gone.

+

 

The boat was hitched to the car in the garage and his duffle bag propped up beside the door, but Eames found himself too tired for travel and remained home.

In bed.

Three months passed, then six. A year. Adeyemi was handed a life sentence for a list of crimes uncountable; everything from fabricating and destroying evidence over the span of a decade to his own killings and corruption. Fischer was given twenty-five years but with parole nearly guaranteed in only ten thanks to his slew of lawyers.

Arthur's trial was the longest, and most grueling, but in the end, no appeals or petitions, no evaluations or testimonies, even Eames' own, could spare him from a death sentence save for one sole juror in disagreement. He was given consecutive life sentences instead.

And in a flash it seemed, it was all over. Arthur was content with what he'd been dealt. Eames could do nothing more.

+

 

After that, it only took a few weeks for Eames' home to return to its former dishevelment.

He startled awake in the late afternoon. He tried to remember when he’d decided to start taking naps this earlier in the day until it hit him that he hadn’t actually gotten out of bed yet today.

The loud volume on the television grew louder still as the sound of a car commercial drifted in through his opened bedroom door. It was a habit he must have picked up from Arthur, leaving the TV on. As he shuffled out of bed to turn it off, he grimaced at the thought of what his electricity bill must look like.

He stopped short in the mouth of the living room. Eames didn’t have to go room to room this time to know that this wasn’t the only place that had been mysteriously cleaned again.

He turned off the TV and headed for the kitchen where he heard cereal clattering into a ceramic bowl.

Eames huffed, sitting down at the table. For a moment, he’d expected fruit loops or something else with too much sugar.

But that bowl was sitting on the counter top, near empty.

“I knew you’d come back,” Eames said, taking the offered cup of coffee. He glanced up.

Arthur retrieved his bowl of fruity pebbles and perched on the edge of the table beside Eames. He made a point to look about the kitchen and living room, reminding Eames that before this morning, this house had been wreck. He rubbed Eames’ thick, coarse beard, feeling his strong jaw underneath. Arthur tsked. “If only your lies were as good as your looks.”

“Piss off,” Eames muttered, trying to hide his blush behind a mouthful of cereal, but failed when Arthur leaned down and kissed his forehead.

He sat down his spoon once he was finished with his breakfast. “You know the first place they’ll come looking for you is here.”

Arthur put their dishes in the dishwasher. He sat back on the table, his brow furrowed. “But why? Nobody’s here.”

Eames sat back. “Is that so? And where is everyone, darling?”

It was Arthur’s turn to blush, hearing that. For a moment, his eyes flashed with lust, his expression hungry. It made Eames swallow.

Arthur took a deep breath. “Well, I’m still in prison.” He showed Eames the name tag on his baggy jumpsuit. It was for a man named Howard Brown. “And I'm also now on medications that Yusuf should be able to find without the world erupting in total chaos again. And you, I’m guessing by the bag and boat, decided to go on a trip. Maybe to the cabin in the mountains and the lake that you wanted to show me?”

Eames brow rose as he stood. “That’s very true. Good point.”

Arthur smiled, letting Eames pull him closer. “Do you still have that coat I always borrowed?”

Eames held Arthur's face for a moment, just to look at him. He kissed his lips, his nose, brow, and his ear, touching his nose to the little halfmoon curve of the shell.

He smirked as he pointed his chin to where the coat was hung beside the backdoor, where it had been waiting all this time, washed and mended, with Eames imagining that someday Arthur would slip into it again. “Let's get dressed and I’ll grab my keys, darling.”

“Hey.” Arthur stopped him from stepping away. “You’re forgetting something first.”

He pulled Eames in close, tasting his lips. He sighed happily into their deeper kiss.

Eames unzip Arthur's jumpsuit and push it down, off his arms. He made sure Arthur watched him with those keen, deadly sharp eyes as he got to his knees, pulling Arthur's jumpsuit and underwear down just enough to free his swelling cock. He traced the snake up Arthur's hip with more kisses, making the boy shiver and moan. He took Arthur past his lips.

Arthur's head fell back. His hold in Eames' hair was like a vice, his voice breathy and unstable as Eames gagged. Eames' palms glided over touch-starved skin, petting his lean waist then higher, his nails raking over hard nipples under Arthur's t-shirt before Eames' hands dipped behind him, slowly massaging his ass.

"God, I missed you, Mr. Eames." Arthur groaned and made Eames stand again, attacking his mouth.

He slipped Eames out of his shirt and slid his hands up Eames' hairy stomach to his chest. Eames' hands caught hold of his hips once more, lifting him to sit further on the table.

Eames' grip was tight, prepared it seemed to never let Arthur out of his arm's reach ever again.

+

++

+

+

 

**Alaska, 40 miles south of Denali State Park — _Ten years ago_**

 

All around Arthur was snow. Crunching under his feet, it blanketed every inch of the forest, bowed down the tree limbs, peppered their dark, rough bark.

Arthur balled his hands into fist inside his little gloves, feeling the cold bite of Alaskan air. He loved it, its harsh, bitterness. Bringing him to Talkeetna was the best thing his parents had ever done so far.

From the small hill, behind a tree, he could see the older boys brushing fresh snow off a few logs to sit on, their hunting rifles strapped over their thick flannel coats.

Arthur crouched low, sinking his hands into the snow, searching for something to voice his presence.

Four heads turned in his direction when he snapped the twig.

Michael, the oldest boy immediately drew his rifle as they all stood, their faces red with anger, even as his voice trembled with unmistakeable fear. “You made a mistake following us.”

Arthur laughed breathless, eager for the adrenaline rush. He shook his head. “I wanted playmates.”

One of the boys glanced at Michael. “Just shoot him already, before he goes crazy again. You’d be doing the whole town a favor getting rid of this little shit, Mike. Do it.”

“No.” Michael smirked, lowering his rifle. “He needs to suffer like he made Jake suffer. I want to make him beg for death. I want to hear him squeal first, Jeff.”

Arthur brow shot up. “Squeal?”

“Like a little pig, you freak!”

“More like all your dogs before I'd cut them open,” Arthur teased. “Yours was going to have puppies, you know, Mike! Those were some of the guts I trailed to your house!” He stepped back, snickering when Michael stomped forward. “You want me to squeal like Jake did when I spilled his guts, huh Michael? Catch me first!”

“Get him! You’re fucked, Arthur! You hear me? You’re not leaving these fucking woods alive!”

Arthur’s smile hurt his cold cheeks as he ran, ducking through tree branches and over fallen logs as little bombs of snow and bark burst here and there, set off by the bullets flying.

Hunted as he too was hunting.

The nagging voice in his head was happy. It promised that his dad would at least be proud of him now, for his ingenuity. Martin was always so frustrated with him, so disappointed that Arthur craved this kind of hunting and none else. Tracking deer was boring, and even Arthur’s game of playing with pet entrails now bored him. But being chased, running, hiding, plotting each boy’s capture, that was the only thrill that got Arthur’s blood truly pumping, his mind focused and sharp, silent.

In the distance behind him, he could hear the boys screaming with ankles crushed in the traps he’d set in the snow. The forest rang with their agony. Beautiful.

There was only one boy behind Arthur now. Michael.

Arthur slowed when he reached a boulder to hide behind until Michael could get close enough.

Michael’s voice cracked, muffled by the screams. “Oh my God. Arthur! Jesus, what did you do? You're a fucking psycho! You're a monster!” He slipped in the snow when he turned to look at his friends all bleeding and crying through the thin trees.

Arthur was quick to pounce, but Michael was still bigger, older. He split Arthur’s lip and aimed his rifle at Arthur’s chest.

Arthur’s heart stopped, the voices screaming, but when Michael pulled the trigger, nothing happened. The gun jammed.

Michael paled, scrambling up quickly to run, headed back towards the clearing near the other boys.

Arthur followed, searching for his knife in his coat pockets as he walked. Its weight felt right in his hands, made the voices hum with contentment. It hadn’t been coated in human blood yet, just a few smaller animals before his dad had taken it from him. He could afford to get in trouble for stealing it back from the shed.

Michael was frantically trying to free the first boy from one of the traps, the white snow soaking, melting in the hot red blood from his crushed ankle and their hands as they pried at the trap’s teeth with no luck.

“Michael, run! He's coming back!” the boys shouted, watching helplessly while Arthur closed to distance between Michael’s back and his knife.

It was much harder than Arthur had expected. Harder even than opening Jake’s throat. He wondered if Jake’s knife had been sharper or maybe the flesh of his neck was softer to cut through than Michael’s spine. He stared at the blood shining on his glove, how it spotted his coat sleeve and dripped from Michael’s clothes as the boy collapsed and crawled, reaching for the trapped boy’s fallen rifle.

It was plucked from Michael’s hands. He lay in the snow in shock as the other boy’s blood sprayed his face and hair.

Arthur stumbled back with the force of the recoil. He hated rifles. They were always too big and out of his control. He threw the gun down and dug in the snow.

“Bobby, no! Jesus Christ, oh my god! Arthur, please! I’m sorry,” Michael sobbed. “Just stop already! Let us go, please!”

Arthur glared, pausing with the rock held over his head. “You dragged me under your car and left me for dead and they laughed at me when you did it.”

“That's not true! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I couldn't see you! It was too dark! I swear it was an accident! No!” Michael covered his face, unable to watch Arthur bash the second boy’s face in. “Please! What do you want me to do? I’ll do anything! Just stop this! Let us go, Arthur! Okay, okay! I did it on purpose! Okay? I hit you," he sobbed, "because you killed Jake's dog! I’ll turn myself in, okay? I promise! I’ll tell everyone what I did, I swear!”

Arthur reached into the blood pouring from the dead boy’s crushed skull. He smeared it on Michael’s face and pulled the knife from his back in passing, headed for the last boy who screamed for help towards the town even as they were a mile deep into the forest. He tried to pull his leg free by himself.

Michael sobbed, the snow yellowing under his hip. “Arthur, please!”

Arthur had to put all of his weight into thrusting the knife through the boy’s sternum, pulling hard on his chest to open it in the hopes of seeing his heart. He couldn’t see much in the outpouring of blood.

“Arthur!” Martin startled him as he hurried down the hill, his cheeks rosy in the cold. “Oh, Jesus! What did you do?”

Arthur stood quickly, hiding his hands at first and backed away, closer to Michael. “Nothing.”

“Arthur.” Martin stomped into the clearing, looking at the carnage in disbelief. He grabbed at his hat, wanting to rip out his hair as he sobbed in anger. “We talked about this! You do not do this to people!”

“But pop, I—”

“Arthur, for god’s sake! I told you you don’t handle things like this! What were you thinking?”

Arthur flinched from Martin's raised voice. His jaw twitched in anger.

Seeing Arthur pick up the rifle, Martin's tone changed. He held up his hands. “No, no, Arthur, hey. I'm sorry for yelling. Just… Put it down. No more, okay? I need to take you home right now, buddy.”

Arthur aimed the rifle at Michael’s head as the older boy cowered, trying to plead his case to Martin. “I can’t!"

“You can, buddy. It’s okay."

"They hurt me. I hate them all.”

"I know they did, and I'm sorry I wasn't there to protect you. But this has to stop right now. It's okay. You just… made a mistake. We’ve been working on this, but we’ll worked harder.”

“I don’t want to stop! I’m not done yet.”

“No, no, no, buddy! Listen to me, okay? You shouldn’t do this! It’s wrong!”

“You do it all the time!”

Martin paused, his expression caving. “You… No. How did you—”

“I found your pictures and the shell casings you label and keep.” Arthur tilted his head, confused to see the dismay on his father's face. “Why didn’t you let me help you, pop? I could learn with you.”

Martin's face twisted in horror. “No, Arthur! Jesus, no. You’re just a little boy. You have no idea why I do what I do. It's not a choice, it's not a game! And it's not your life! You can grow up and be whoever you want! You don’t have to be like me. Come on, Arthur, put the gun down. Come on, buddy—No!”

Arthur pulled the trigger, stumbling back a step again from the force of the shot as Michael’s head shattered across the snow.

The sound echoed through the woods for only a moment before the falling snow muted the air again, swallowing them all. After so much screaming and yelling, the silence in the clearing was deafening. Even in Arthur's head, all was quiet as white snow pattered over his clothes and cheeks, the gun, Martin, the blood.

“Oh, no.” Martin ran his hands over his face and sobbed as he fell to his knees, cursing under his breath. "What did you do, Arthur?"

Arthur’s shoulders sank. The voices returned, mirroring his father’s disappointment. “I did it wrong?” He wiped at his running nose and rubbed his ear under his hat, scared. “Pop? You hate me now?”

Martin took a moment to gather himself. He sneered before he shook his head. “Of-of course not, buddy. You're... you my kid. Of course not.” He looked pained as he glanced around them, eyes searching through the trees and listening for any sign of someone who might be approaching them. “Why don't we, um..." He wiped his nose. "Let’s get out of these woods, huh? Your mom’ll be missing us if we don’t hurry back home.”

"Okay." Arthur quickly searched through the snow for the shell casing.

He walked through Michael’s blood, smiling as he unfolded Martin's fist and put the casing in his palm.

Martin's expression was pained once more. He looked to Arthur intensely, pointing his gloved finger at Arthur's chest. "Promise me that you'll never do anything like this again."

Arthur dove for his waist, hugging him tightly. He smirked against Martin's chest, eyes on Michael's blood, his fingers crossing behind Martin's back as he lied.

"I promise."

 

+

++

 

It's unfortunate that when we feel a stone  
We can roll ourselves over 'cause we're uncomfortable  
Oh well, the devil makes us sin  
But we like it when we're spinning in his grip...

_― Paradise Circus, Massive Attack_

  

*****

**The End**

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For questions, inspiration tags, and more for this fic and others, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com
> 
> [tag: crime au]

**Author's Note:**

> For questions, inspiration tags, and more for this fic and others, visit grizzly-bear-bane.tumblr.com
> 
> [tag: crime au]


End file.
